


All That We Have

by Laiquilasse



Series: The Object of My Affection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Mycroft, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Arguing, Army Doctor John Watson, Assault, Gender Role Reversal, Heavy Angst, JOHNLOCK IS ENDGAME, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega Eurus, Omega John, Omega John Watson, Omega Verse, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Protective Mycroft, Reconciliation, References to Knotting, Role Reversal, Rough Sex, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: Six years after omega John walks away from Sherlock, he is invalided back home from the army. Having nowhere to go, and no one to turn to, John heads back to Baker Street, and to his alpha mate.But Sherlock has not been idle in their years apart, and as much as John longs for things to be as they once were, there are some chasms that are too deep to be filled.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! I'd *highly* recommend reading 'All That I Am' before beginning this fic, as a lot of John and Sherlock's behaviours and reactions will be explained by doing so.

London was colder than he remembered.

John Watson zipped up his jacket as he walked out of the underground station, the autumn wind blowing newspaper sheets and old crisp wrappers around his jeans. The Evening Standard distributer was wearing a thick hat and gloves, and John almost felt bad for refusing a copy of the rag as he hitched up his backpack. The army had taught him not to get attached to possessions, and his bag of clothes was one of only two. The other had been sent on to the half-way house that he would be staying in, if this went badly.

 _This_ being his attempt to get in contact with his mate, Sherlock Holmes.

It was six years since John, eighteen and headstrong, had walked out of the flat they shared, and joined the army. It had been his only chance to train to be a doctor – his dream career – when all the universities refused to accept him. And walking out on your boyfriend might be bad enough, but John had left the morning after his oestrus heat. A heat in which he and Sherlock had mated, and bonded for life. Sherlock was John’s, as much as John was Sherlock’s.

And John had walked away from it all.

It was beyond difficult, at first.

John spent the bus journey to Catterick staring out of the window, telling scraps of his story to James Sholto – an old friend, who was enlisting at the same time. John skipped over a lot of it. He skipped over the emotional and psychological abuse wrought on him by Sherlock’s father. He skipped over his dependence on heat-suppressors. He skipped over just how much he loved Sherlock.

It was like tearing at an already open wound.

Once at the barracks, John had to hold his feelings at bay. The communal dormitories were full of alpha scent, and the scent made the pain of his loss – what he’d given up – all the more acute. Though his military-issued drugs kept him from flooding the chamber with omega pheromones, he curled under the blanket and cried silently, one hand over his still-fresh bond-bite, the other on his stomach, mourning the loss of the pregnancy he hadn’t allowed to happen. He shook with loneliness, being apart from his mate, being apart from Sherlock in this tiny single bed, sleeping alone for the first time in two years, the blankets shoved around him as he shivered.

He tried calling Sherlock the next morning, in the hour of free time he had between getting up and hitting the training field.

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Until John put the receiver down, feeling emptier than before.

He didn’t know it, but he would try and call his mate every day for the next six months before giving up, and trying letters, instead.

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I can’t begin to imagine how angry you are, with me. I’m so sorry. I miss you so much, it’s like half of me is still at Baker Street with you – like I’ve been sliced in half._

_Training is going well – I go to lectures in the evenings for medical training, and I’ll be going on my first placement soon – it’s in Germany, but I can’t say where. I’ll be out there for nine months or so, but I’ll still write to you._

_I really miss waking up with you, and sitting on the sofa with you, and just knowing that you’re going to be there._

_I love you so much._

_I don’t know what to write._

_I just wish you’d pick up the phone. I need to talk to you. I need to tell you how much I love you, and how much I want to see you. I can have time off at Christmas, and I want to see you and hold you and do everything like we used to do._

_I just miss you so much._

_Please write back._

_Your John_

_xxxxxx_

The letter was returned, unopened, on December 10th. James Sholto had to ring John, who was on medical placement in Germany, to tell him that his letter had come back.

John had spent the evening in tears, crying in the dormitories, his soul in agony as he felt the bond he had with Sherlock throb, like a golden cord connecting them both, refusing to go away, refusing to hurt less.

John spent Christmas in Germany. It was very pretty, and very tasty, but shockingly lonely. He wandered the Christmas markets on his own, inhaling the cinnamon and mulled wine smells, buying a few tiny wooden decorations to post to Harry, and to Sherlock.

He sent them off, a drawing ache in his chest, and went back to his empty dormitory to read his textbooks and study things that didn’t really take his mind off how alone he was.

 _You wanted this,_ a nasty voice hissed, in his head. _You wanted it. You left your mate for this. You have no right to complain. You wanted this so badly, you get on with it._

And he did, passing his exams with flying colours and moving back to the UK with a different, harder outlook. Basic training continued, with John having a lot to make up for – he’d missed time, and he was naturally not as fast or tough as his alpha and beta comrades. He ran hard, let his drill instructor scream at him as he climbed obstacles and learned to fire a gun he hoped he’d never have to use to take someone’s life.

He still wrote to Sherlock. Every Thursday.

And every Wednesday after, the letter came back, unopened.

He still wrote.

John was nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

Deployed.

Germany, again, for his first time out. Then Cyprus. And then The Falkland Islands.

A whisper away from qualifying as an Army Doctor, John spent most of his very boring deployment marching and staring, or else in the gym, or in the medical centre, dealing with soldiers who needed their sore throats and sore knees looking at. It was the most boring six months of John’s training, and he got back to Britain determined to knuckles into his final bout of medical training, and to match the alphas he was up against.

And then John was twenty-two.

And an army doctor.

He had a passing-out parade that he should have had years ago, but had to keep putting off because of medical training and deployments. He stood proud, the only omega in the line-up, his doctor’s badge sewn onto his uniform, looking into the stands where no one had come to watch his moment of triumph.

That night, he took off his formal uniform, and leaned against the door of his closet in the private room he had, now he had earned it.

He had been told, on the sly, that he could be promoted to Captain if he kept up his exemplary record.

He was exhausted.

John’s entire life for the last four years had been training and fighting and running and learning. He hadn’t rested. Because, if he rested, he thought. He thought about Sherlock. He thought about what he’d given up, what he was missing, all those returned letters in his locker, all those unanswered phone-calls, the emotional wrenching that he went through every time he went for his blocker shot.

He was so tired.

“You ok, John?”

He jumped, slamming his closet door, and turning, wrapping his arms over his naked chest to hide his nipples. “Yeah. And you ever heard of knocking, you twat?”

“Sorry, I thought you were…” James hovered in the doorway. “…crying.”

“No, so you can put your phone away,” John said, grabbing his pyjama top.

“I wouldn’t film you, John, what’d you take me for?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not like that,” James folded his arms. “I just want to check you’re ok.”

John sighed. “Right. Sorry… Just… you know. Knee-jerk response.” John had been caught crying a few times, in the early days, and had to fight and shout and argue to keep from losing face as the only omega there.

James nodded. “I get it. So… _are_ you ok?”

“I don’t know,” John said. “I really don’t know. I…” he touched his bond-bite long since healed into a scar. “He doesn’t want me, does he?”

James’ face crumpled a little, and he took half a step forward. “Then he’s a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t say that,” John said. “Don’t. Don’t…” his vision was swimming.

James clenched his fists. “John, you don’t have to defend him. He’s given you nothing.”

“I fucking left him!” John almost shouted. “I… I left…” He covered his face, guilt swelling up inside him like a maelstrom.

And then there were arms around him.

And John wanted to push them away. And John wanted them to squeeze tighter.

The physical contact made him dizzy. The touch of the wrong alpha made him nauseous.

“You did what you had to do, to be the amazing doctor you are now,” James said, resting his chin on John’s head. “You’ve done so much good, John. You needed to do this. If your… if he can’t see that, then maybe you… should find someone who can.”

John let out a shaky breath. “I can’t. I can never… I’m bonded.”

“Bonds can break.”

“Not this one,” John pulled back. “I still feel it, every single day.”

 _I still love him, so much_.

James stroked down John’s bare arms. “That could change.”

John looked up, wanting to argue, but finding he had no energy for it. No energy to resist what was going to happen.

So he stood still, and let James kiss him, let James scent at his barely-there omega smell, let the alpha touch his topless body, run his large hands over John’s skin, pick him up and carry him to the bed, pausing only to shut and lock the door.

John stared at the ceiling, neither joining in nor resisting as James kissed every inch of him, took off both of their clothes, touched fingers to his entrance that was wet with invitation John’s body was desperate for, even if his guilty soul couldn’t commit to more than a nod to say this was ok. He bit his lip, hiding moans as James drew pleasure from him, feelings he had almost forgotten existed, a closeness that missed the mark. He shut his eyes as James pushed inside him, but that made him picture Sherlock, so he opened them again and lived in the moment, watching James’ face contort with pleasure and emotion as he fucked him.

Possibly it was what James had wanted since they were boys on the playing field.

John let James fall asleep in his bed once it was over, then went to the showers, alpha come running from his entrance as he scrubbed and washed. He didn’t cry, didn’t feel violated, didn’t think he’d been taken advantage of.

His body felt relieved – pleasured and loved and wanted and sexed and filled like it should be.

His mind felt nothing.

It had been as impersonal as a handshake.

John was deployed to Afghanistan two weeks later.

He and James didn’t have sex again.

Three months into his deployment, John was on a routine walk-through of the countryside. A man three soldiers ahead of him stepped on a IED. John had to try to crawl over to him as enemy gunfire and shrapnel rained from the skies.

The bullet got him in the shoulder.

And he woke up in an Army hospital, his colleagues tending to him, telling him he was a hero, telling him how proud everyone was of his bravery.

And then the scans came back.

And John was fitted with a titanium shoulder joint, and discharged from the army, aged only twenty-four.

He had had on visitor, in hospital. And it hadn’t been who he either expected, or wanted.

He woke one afternoon to find Mycroft Holmes sitting by his bed, reading _Heat_ magazine.

“Mycroft?” John croaked.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Mycroft put his reading material down. “I was going to leave a note if it took much longer.”

“Is Sherlock with you?” John asked.

Mycroft’s lips went thin. “I’m here to serve you with this,” he dropped a medal onto the bed, “and this,” a wallet of papers landed on top.

John just looked at them.

“Discharge papers, and confirmation that your half-way house has been arranged. They needed a next of kin to come and sign you out, but…”

John looked up. “Mycroft for fuck’s sake tell me Sherlock isn’t dead.”

“He’s not dead.”

Relief ran through John’s limbs.

“But you will not attempt to see him,” Mycroft stood. “I forbid it. He has made it abundantly clear that he does not wish to see you. Draw a line under all this. Go and live the life you apparently want.” And he had marched out of the hospital wing without another word.

John had, of course, ignored him completely. As soon as he got to London, he topped up his Oyster and got on the Bakerloo Line.

He had to try.

As soon as he stepped onto British soil he felt revived. Like he could fix this. Like he could make it all better. Work as a GP, maybe. Live with the man he loved, maybe even have children, one day. He felt a little more ready for that, now.

He left the busy station-area, and walked the short route to Baker Street, wondering if he should bring flowers, or something. But Sherlock would probably slam the door in his face, anyway. But he had to try.

He had to try.

The road looked much the same. The sandwich shop on the ground floor had had a new roof. That was about it.

John hovered at the foot of the steps that led to the front door.

 _No time like the present_ , he told himself, and walked up. He took a deep breath, and raised his hand to knock.

The door opened under his hand, and he flinched in surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Are you a client? We’re just off out, actually, is it urgent?”

John stared at the smiling speaking. A man in his mid-twenties looked pleasantly at him from inside the doorway. He was tall, and had brown skin and black hair that was pulled back into what John thought might be called a ‘man-bun’. He looked happy.

“I…”

“You can leave us a number,” the man said, taking out his phone. “If you like?”

“Er…”

“Victor, if it’s a client, tell them to get off the doorstep and come back later. If you have to drag me to this tiresome party, I’d rather not be la-” Sherlock stopped dead behind the first man, his eyes meeting John’s.

John couldn’t speak.

Sherlock looked the same and not. He was thinner, more gaunt, wearing smarter clothes, but he was the same.

 _My mate_ , John’s blood sang, and he had to grip the rail beside himself.

Victor, the man with his phone out, frowned. “Sherlock? You ok?” he looked back at him.

Sherlock blinked, once. “Fine. Victor, this… this is a client of some importance. Can you give my apologies to Molly?”

“D-do you need me to stay with you?” Victor looked at John again, as if he was a threat. And John could hardly blame him. John was clearly fresh out of the army, with a crew cut, muscles, and a camo jacket.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. “Honestly. I can deal with this.”

Victor nodded, and put his phone away. “Call me, yeah?”

“I will,” Sherlock leaned in as Victor went for a kiss.

And John’s stomach fell into his shoes as the sight of the soft, loving kiss. The tender touch of hands. The obvious relationship.

The very thing he had given up.

“Nice to meet you,” Victor said pleasantly as he passed.

John could only nod, listening to Victor get into the waiting cab he hadn’t noticed before. The door slammed, and the vehicle drove away, and still John and Sherlock stayed on the doorstep.

Finally, one of them moved.

Sherlock held the door open. “Hadn’t you better come in, Doctor Watson?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to repeat a lot of what I've said in the comments for the previous chapter, but please bear in mind that I will add tags to this fic as I go along* - that generally means after chapters have been posted. It's how I've always run my tagging system, and honestly I've never had complaints until now. I also can't answer questions in the comments that ask me to spoil the plot (e.g.: what will happen when / is Character X going to be in this / etc), I'm sorry, but it isn't fair on other readers who might come across it and have the fic spoiled for them.
> 
> Thank you for all the love and support from so many of you, it keeps me writing, and I love sharing my work with you all. 
> 
> *obviously offensive or triggering material will obv be tagged as soon as possible

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” John said as they got upstairs. He took off his backpack and put it beside the sofa, just like he used to when he’d get in from school, all those years ago. An ache of longing – longing for the past – ran through his chest. He looked around as Sherlock followed him in, looking at John for a moment, before going to stand near the mantelpiece as if getting too close to John was unthinkable.

“Yes, well, people to tend to accumulate things…” the alpha touched a pile of letters on the mantle. There was a knife sticking out of them.

John nodded, looking at the new armchairs, the black and white wallpaper, the new (albeit threadbare and probably secondhand) rugs. There was a skull on the mantle, and books John didn’t recognise on the shelves. It was like his home, and not, all at once. He hadn’t realised he’d missed the flat, too. His nest, with the mate he had run away from.

“Sherlock –”

“Please tell me you’ve not come here to seek some sort of explanation for the past few years,” Sherlock turned, eyes blazing. He put his hands in his pockets. “If anything, I would counter that you own me one.”

“I don’t deny it,” John said. “Really, I - I’m sorry. Running out on you was unfair. You should have been given the chance to –”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said, his head ever so slightly on one side. “You did what you felt you had to do. For yourself.”

“Yes, but I know it would have hurt you –”

“What. Do. You. Care?” Sherlock said. He looked halfway between furious and upset. “What do you care, John? You got what you wanted out of the situation, didn’t you? You got to be a doctor, to go off and shoot people in pointless wars, to spend all your time with other alphas, what does your mate matter?” His eyes skimmed over John’s hair, his body. “You look different.”

“Yeah, turns out exercising for twenty hours a day takes a toll on you. And yeah, the hair,” John ran a hand over his very short haircut.

Sherlock didn’t smile.

“Sherlock, I do want to apologise. I was a stupid kid, and I didn’t think about what leaving… would do to… us.”

“US?!” Sherlock stepped forward. “Us – John – there is _no_ us. We have nothing. No connection. Nothing. How could we have _anything_ when you walked away so easily?” He was right in front of John, now, towering over him, angry alpha scent washing over him, and John couldn’t move. He was frozen to the floor, mouth open in unsaid words, hands clenched together. “I loved you, John. I loved you. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, and you _left_ me. Not even as a boyfriend, you waited until we were bonded! How could you?”

John had faced down many angry alphas, some of them holding guns, but he had never felt like this. This was his _mate_ , furious and disappointed with him, and he had no idea how to react. His instincts were going into overdrive, sparking into life from their drug-suppressed state, from the years of following orders and routines and not giving in to his urges and his tears and his lows. John was a mated omega, but he’d never lived with his mate, never had a chance to work out their dynamics, never tested their dominant and submissive boundaries.

And the only thing he could do was lower his head to one side, and look at the floor in horrified submission, in an instinctive urge to be small, to hide himself, to let his alpa take from him what he needed – what they both needed – to reignite their bond.

“What on _Earth_ are you doing?” Sherlock snarled, lifting John’s chin with a hand.

“I don’t know!” John said. “I don’t –”

Sherlock clamped his hands down on John’s shoulders. “John, you can’t just act like this and think that…” he stopped, and swallowed. “Why do you smell different?”

“It’s the shot,” John said, looking into the alpha’s eyes. “Six years of it has probably…” he glanced at Sherlock’s mouth, “probably messed me up permanently, who knows. Not had a heat in years, I’m probably infertile, my scent’s wrong…”

God, they were close.

“I’m sorry,” John said softly, staying very, very still. “I really am.”

“You…” Sherlock blinked hard, then leaned in, looking confused. His nose brushed down John’s throat. “Where’s your scent? I need to find it, you’re…” He nuzzled into John’s soft skin, walking him backwards.

“Uh…” John tried to think. His back hit the wall, and he still couldn’t process what was happening. Sherlock inhaled down his neck. John felt a tongue flick against his throat.

“Sher…”

“Shut up.”

John let out a tiny cry, Sherlock holding him still against the wall, pressing him chest to chest, his hands holding John’s arms, his legs nudging John’s legs apart as he scented him hard, searching for that omega smell that John barely omitted, anymore.

Except…

“Oh god,” John gasped a tingle of desire running through him, like heat and electricity, running down his body, pooling at his crotch. Sherlock’s lips were on his throat. “Sherlock…”

“There it is,” Sherlock inhaled hard, then tried to grab John’s hair, and failed. “Your new haircut is ridiculous.”

“I know,” John breathed. “I can grow it ou-”

John never finished, because Sherlock was kissing him.

And it was like dying.

And being brought back to life.

The bond that John had shoved down, out of sight for so long, had tried to ignore, tried not to let take over him as he lay crying in bed on those nights alone in the barracks… ignited. It was as though connections were being forged in his brain where they’d previously been halted. It was as though by walking away that morning six years ago, John hadn’t let his mind fully adjust to what it meant to be a bonded omega.

And now, he knew.

“Oh…” his knees buckled as Sherlock shoved him against the wall.

“Mine,” Sherlock snarled, breath washing over John’s ear, making him whimper. “My mate.”

“My alpha,” John gasped. “My…”

“ _My_ omega,” Sherlock countered, scraping his teeth down John’s throat, seeking the curve of his neck, growling in frustration at the clothes in his way. He shoved back from John, and shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Need to claim you. We…”

John looked towards the bedroom.

“No,” Sherlock raised a hand. “Can’t…”

“Right,” John tried to think. Why couldn’t they use the bedroom? Who cared if they used the bedroom?

Ah…

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Up-upstairs.”

John looked up. “But –”

“Upstairs, _now_ , omega!” Sherlock shouted, giving John a shove.

John stumbled backward, wrenching the door open and heading for the stairs, his brain shouting at him to obey – six years of taking orders and he’d never snapped to obey so quickly. There was something in his mind that made it impossible to deny this man in front of him, his mate. John would do virtually anything, and he had no idea why.

Except that the idea of denying the man he loved made him feel sick and wrong.

This was what it meant to be bonded.

Sherlock followed him up, kicking the door shut behind them.

The spare room was stripped, no bedding on the bare mattress, the curtain drawn over the window.

Not that John noticed.

The two men crashed together, arms and hands grabbing at anything they could reach. They kissed hard, less a sensual start to love-making and more a desperate need for physical contact. Sherlock forced John’s jacket zip down, off, over his arms, to the floor, moving to his belt, unbuckling fast, opening John’s jeans-buttons, and his zip, shoving his trousers down over his arse, with his pants, in one movement.

“Get over the bed. Now,” Sherlock spun John and pushed him over, kicking his ankles apart, though they couldn’t go far with his trousers around his ankles.

“Sherlock…” John looked over his shoulder, his breath coming in heaves, arms shaking as he watched Sherlock drop his own trousers to reveal his throbbing cock, red at the glans, already glistening, the knot at the base already swelling. “Oh, fffuck.”

“Mine…” Sherlock pressed the head of his cock against John’s damp entrance, rubbing over the already softened skin without pushing in. “My omega, you’ve been away for too long.”

“Sherlock!” John whined, scrabbling for something to hold onto on the bare mattress. “Sherlock, please –” He covered his mouth with a hand as Sherlock shoved inside. “OH FUCK!”

“Ah,” Sherlock panted, forcing his way inside, up to the knot, gasping as he gripped hard at John’s hips, until he could go no further. He groaned, running a hand flat against John’s stomach, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against John’s insides. “Uh, my omega. Mine. My…”

“Yours,” John sobbed, his arse feeling stretched and aching and so full that he thought he might pass out. “Oh _god_ , yours. I…” his words were cut short as Sherlock pulled back and thrust hard back inside, and again, and again, slamming into John with quick snaps of his hips that had the omega shaking and moaning. It was marking, claiming, staking a claim on John, driven by instinctual need rather than lust, and John’s inner omega was crowing in triumph at the fierce pleasure-pain shooting through him with every fierce thrust.

Sherlock pulled John up by the chest, holding him firmly, scenting his throat, running his tongue up his neck, inhaling the fading scent of him, hands splayed on his chest. “My omega, my mate… My John…”

“Oh god,” John sobbed, his cock spilling over, thin streaks of fluid splattering onto the bed, his arse clenching hard around his alpha’s cock, making Sherlock roar in pleasure shoving forward hard, John’s sharp cry the only thing stopping Sherlock short from trying to knot him.

Sherlock bit down, right onto John’s scent gland, making John scream until Sherlock clamped a hand over his mouth and forced them both down onto the mattress, thrusting gently back and forth, rolling his hips, emptying himself inside John, shuddering as he released his bite.

John gasped, catching his breath. “Oh… oh, Sherlock…” He reached, trying to take Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock groaned, and pushed off and out of John, pulling away so a trickle of come ran from John’s insides. “Oh, god. Oh… my god.”

“Sherlock,” John turned, wincing at the sensation of emptiness, and his sore neck. “Sherlock, I missed you so –”

“Stop,” Sherlock pulled his trousers up. “I sh-shouldn’t have done that.”

“What’re you talking about?” John sat on the edge of the mattress, yanking up his own pants. “We – we’re bonded, Sherlock –”

“I am in a _relationship_ ,” Sherlock said, his face falling. “I…”

John’s stomach dropped, and he felt hot and sick. “Victor, the man at the door?”

Sherlock nodded. “He’s a beta. We… struck up a friendship…” he looked up, guilt washing through his features. “Oh god, we…”

John stared, then pulled up his jeans and fastened them, trying not to let his panic show. “You got too close to me. I should have backed off. This is my fault. We’re bonded. It’s just biology, Sherlock.” He tucked his shirt in. “This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Each word was like swallowing a knife.

Sherlock passed a hand over his face. “Doesn’t it?”

“Not if you don’t want it to,” John forced out. “I mean… I didn’t say no, did I?”

“Neither did I.”

John looked up. “Sherlock… I came here to talk to you, not to trick you into… this. I want to… I didn’t know you were in a relationship. Mycroft never said.”

 _He did tell you to stay away, though_ , John thought to himself, _maybe you should have listened_.

“It shouldn’t matter, should it? We’re bonded, and you’re back.”

John tried to stop being hopeful. “So…”

“I can’t do this,” Sherlock puffed out a breath. “I… I didn’t know you were coming back, I – I’ve had sex with you, I…”

“It’s ok,” John went over and took Sherlock’s hands. “Sherlock – I know I left you. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how that must have been – it hurt me enough, and I was the one doing it.”

Sherlock pulled his hands free. “John, I don’t… I can’t think. You being so close… it makes me want to…” he brushed over John’s cheek. Then drew back. “What are we?”

“Mates,” John said sadly. “Nothing else.” Already it seemed like their quick shag was hours, rather than minutes ago. “Unless you want us to be.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, and turned away. “I shouldn’t have had sex with you. Are – are you still on the pill?”

“I’ve not had a heat,” John said, sadly. “I don’t know if I can, anymore.”

Sherlock was silent.

“You wouldn’t want a broken omega, anyway,” John said, picking up his jacket. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m – I’m sorry for putting you in this position.”

“John… I…” Sherlock huffed out a breath. “I’m seeing Victor. I have been for some time. I don’t know what to do, now. I… I thought we were over.”

“We don’t have to be,” John whispered.

“I think we probably do,” Sherlock opened the door. “After six years of silence, John… I don’t know if one quick fuck is going to make a difference.”

John blinked. “Six years… You never contacted me. Not once.”

Sherlock looked away.

“I called you,” John said. “I wrote. I… You never even opened my letters.”

“I wasn’t here,” Sherlock said. He looked back at the omega. “You’re not the only one who chose to be selfish. Not the only one who decided to put himself on the firing line.” He lowered his voice. “You don’t know what you drove me to.”

“Then tell me,” John said. “Tell me, I want to know.”

Sherlock indicated the door.

John glared. “Fine. You want to keep secrets? Fine, you can fucking keep them. I never expected you to welcome me back with open arms, but to stand there being all cryptic and mysterious when I’ve come here to talk and make amends is just you being an awkward sod.” He zipped up his jacket. “Call me when you’re ready to talk. And I mean talk, not have a secret fuck in your spare room. I’m not doing that for you.”

And he marched out of the flat, snatching up his bag as he went.

 


	3. Chapter 3

John collected his suitcase from behind the front desk, and lugged it to his hotel-style room, feeling miserable. The tiny hostel was rarely used, as its only designation was for omegas discharged from the armed forces. John was the only person house at the moment, and even the front desk was abandoned – he had to call and wait for a beta woman to come and unlock his things from a safety box.

“Here,” she gave him a spare key, “just put it through the letterbox when you leave. I doubt anyone else’ll be coming… Try and get some fresh air, and stuff.”

“Thanks,” John snorted.

The room was small. Everything in it was army-issue, grey and beige and uninspiring, with a small window that didn’t open, and triple-bolts on the doors – apparently alpha-proofed, but John doubted it. He’d seen battle-enraged alpha soldiers tear down metal doors without apparently feeling a thing. Still. Probably no battle-enraged alphas, here.

He locked the door anyway, and stripped off before getting in the shower, wincing at his slightly aching backside, feeling Sherlock’s come dried on his arse and legs. That was humiliating, but also sort of nice, wearing his mate’s –

Stop it.

He washed quickly, getting out and wrapping a towel around his waist before opening his suitcase and bag. He sighed at the contents. Clothes, one pair of non-boot shoes, and a bundle of returned letters. _Why didn’t I say I had them_? He lifted them out. _And what did Sherlock even mean by ‘I wasn’t here’_?

He flipped through them, tempted to open them but knowing it would be painful. He put them aside, and took out his laptop, instead, checking his emails. There were two from his commanding officer, asking him to RSVP to a medal ceremony, and one from James Sholto.

John deleted it without reading it.

He didn’t need that, not after today.

Sherlock had sent him away. Fucked him, then told him to go.

Sherlock had a boyfriend.

Sherlock was probably in love.

His mate was cheating on him with some beta, and John couldn’t help but feel disgusted with the entire situation. On the one hand, he loved Sherlock, and didn’t regret their sex. On the other, he felt their frantic fuck was more than justified since Sherlock was seeing someone else. And on a third hand (John rolled his eyes at himself), Sherlock had felt so guilty afterwards that John felt guilty in response. The young man that had answered the door – Victor, apparently – had seemed happy and pleasant, and probably made Sherlock happy. He’d know Sherlock was bonded, presumably, and taking a risk with a bonded alpha was brave.

John wondered what Sherlock had told him.

He suddenly felt queasy, and closed his laptop lid, pushing the machine away. He got dressed into his pyjamas, and got into bed, where he rolled around all night, worrying endlessly, and missing Sherlock like he was missing half of himself.

 

*

 

He felt no better the next morning, when he was woken by a knock at the door that made him leap out of bed on the edge of a heart-attack.

“Jesus…” he smoothed his hair, and went over to the screen showing who was outside the door, hoping it was Sherlock.

It was not.

“Fucksake…” he opened the door. “Good morning, Mycroft.”

“Good morning,” Mycroft’s nostrils flared in way of greeting.

“If you’re about to –”

“I told you not to go to Sherlock’s,” Mycroft interrupted. “And you are, apparently, incapable of following orders. Did the army suit you, at all?”

“Har har, I have missed your wit,” John leaned against the doorframe. “And don’t get your bloomers in a twist – Sherlock told me to get out. So, here I am.”

Mycroft looked deliberately on the reopened bite on John’s neck.

“That,” John blushed, “just sort of … happened.”

“You weren’t meant to be there _at all_ ,” Mycroft snapped. “Never mind long enough for Sherlock to tell you anything. Or _bite_ you.”

John stared. “So… what? You’re ok with the fact your brother has abandoned his mate?”

“Abandoned?!” Mycroft went purple. “After you…” he stopped, and seemed to gather himself. “John, you cannot intrude on Sherlock’s life. Not anymore. He has a new partner. He is finally looking after himself again. You –”

“Looking after himself?” John frowned suddenly. “What do you mean?”

Mycroft stood straighter. “You are no longer privy to the details of my brother’s life.”

“Did you stop my letters?”

Mycroft looked away.

“Mycroft!”

“I did not stop them,” he said. “Mrs Hudson returned them to you, initially. I took over after… afterwards.”

“Why would Mrs Hudson stop Sherlock reading my letters? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“She couldn’t pass them on, that’s all you need to know,” Mycroft dug into the carpet with his umbrella.

John opened the door wider. “Mycroft, what happened to Sherlock?”

“It’s none –”

“-of my business, I get it,” John sighed. “But what happened to Sherlock? Mycroft, he’s my mate. I love him. I can’t stop loving him. I wrote to him every week for nearly six years. Not that he knew that, apparently. What happened to him?”

Mycroft looked John over, then back to the carpet. “Take care, John.”

“Mycroft, don’t you dare walk away from me,” John shoved the door open and grabbed the alpha by the lapels, yanking him down to face him. “You did something. Didn’t you?”

“Your letters to Sherlock didn’t get delivered to him through no action of mine until three years ago,” Mycroft snarled bracing an arm across John’s chest to try and escape. “Three years, John. Three years of Sherlock being _untraceable_ , understand?”

John let go. “What happened?”

Mycroft smoothed off his suit. “That is Sherlock’s story to tell, not mine.”

“Then tell me this,” John said, “how did he meet Victor? Sherlock hates everyone. How would be find a boyfriend?”

“They found each other,” Mycroft said. “That’s all you’ll get from me.”

John let out a snarl. “Mycroft, why the fuck are you here?”

“To tell you to leave my brother alone,” he said. “And to remind you that your army pension makes paying rent in London nearly impossible, and that moving up north might be your best option.” He took a business card from his wallet, and John took it with a sneer. “Call, when you’re ready to make the move out of this shoebox, and to a new life, away from London.”

John watched him go, before ripping the card in half and throwing it into a corner of his room. He got back into bed, and punched his pillow. The conversation with Mycroft has just made him feel worse. The nausea was back, alongside a tense sort of guilt that was strapped around his chest.

Sherlock hadn’t got the letters.

Because Sherlock wasn’t there to get them.

Because Sherlock was somewhere else – somewhere he met Victor.

But before that, Sherlock was somewhere he couldn’t be contacted.

What on Earth was going on?

Was Sherlock a spy? Had he run off into the wilderness? Had he come after John? What the hell?

John shoved the covers down, and rolled onto his back, hating how his body reacted to thoughts of Sherlock – making his heart hurt, and the renewed bite at his throat throb. He sighed, the memory of the evening before rushing back to him – Sherlock holding him hard as he fucked him, slamming inside him to claim, to mark, to breed… though that was probably pointless, John reminded himself, he was so long without a heat that his fertility was likely to be destroyed even if he ever had a heat again, and getting pregnant outside one was unlikely anyway… maybe he should take a pregnancy test in a few weeks…

John groaned, and covered his eyes. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. Now he just felt sicker.

He checked the time. It was almost ten. He should get up. He had to call into the recruitment centre that day, anyway, and he didn’t want to be _that_ ex-recruit who rolled in at 3pm and clearly hadn’t washed. He got up, and went to click the shower on, trying not to think Sherlock.

 

*

 

“Captain Watson,” the alpha desk corporal saluted, before indicating the chair. “I’ve got your address down as the hostel on Haliday Street, correct, sir?”

“That’s right,” John said, trying not to look embarrassed, wishing he was in uniform like the corporal, not in a plaid shirt and jeans like a civilian.

“And I’ve got marital status down as ‘bonded’,” the corporal blinked at the message. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t realise.”

“Not a problem,” John said.

“But you’re separated, I assume, sir?”

“Is that essential?”

“Well, it’s asking for your mate’s address, sir,” the corporal spun the screen to show him. “Sorry.”

“Can you just leave it blank?” John sighed. “Things are a bit… complicated.”

“Uh-huh,” the corporal’s eyes flicked to the redness on John’s neck.

John dug his nails into his palm, but let the corporal type.

“Alright, that’s all sorted, sir,” the alpha man hit ‘print’. “You’ll have to check in again next month, and be re-evaluated for a longer stay at the hostel… if things haven’t worked out.” He signed something on the paper. “Your pension payments will begin in ten days, and you’ve got your wages backdated as well as compensation for injury,” he pointed at the relevant numbers. “And that’s all, sir.”

“Thanks,” John took the papers and stood, receiving and returning another salute.

“And good luck with everything, sir,” the corporal said, sympathetically. “Long-distance… is pretty difficult, I know.”

“You have a mate?” John asked.

“Not yet,” the corporal shrugged. “She’s… worried about me, going on deployment, all the time. Worries I’ll be hurt, you know? Well…” the corporal’s eyes flicked to John’s shoulder. “I’m sure you understand, sir.”

John gave a nod, and marched out of the offices, hating how obvious his failures were to those around him.

Everyone knew he was an omega. Everyone knew he was bonded. Everyone knew he was injured and a failure and living without his mate… God, he just wanted to curl up into a ball and hide.

No, not hide – nest.

John got all the blankets and duvets together as soon as he got home to the hostel, and burrowed into them, giving in to his omega instincts and dwelling in the warmth and softness, letting himself doze off to sleep in the middle of the day.

And by the time he woke up, everything was a hundred times worse.

John groaned, fighting his way out of the covers, trying to get fresh air to his sweaty skin. He felt hot, and sticky, and horrible, and he wasn’t stupid, he knew what was happening.

“Oh, shitting fuckety fucking shitting fuck,” he kicked his covers off, standing and catching his breath as he held the back of the chair. “Oh, fuckety fucking fuck. Shit.” He sniffed, wiping his face, and looking around the room. “Like I need this now…” he bent over a moment, fighting off a cramp. “Uh… oh. Oh no…” he swallowed.

He was about to have his first heat in six years.

He’d never had a heat as a bonded omega.

Only a bonded omega’s alpha could slake the lust and rising temperature of their omega. Even if another alpha had sex with them, it would make no difference.

Without them, the omega’s temperature could rise high enough to kill them.

John banged his head on the desk.

He needed Sherlock.

He needed Sherlock, or else he could die.

And he didn’t even have his number.

“Oh, fuck this,” John dropped to the floor, searching for the scraps of Mycroft’s business card. He was about to call in a serious favour. No, not call in - 

 

Beg.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hello?”

“Mycroft, it’s John. Please don’t hang up,” John huffed out in a single breath.

“Why would I do that? I must say I hadn’t expected you to change your tune quite so quickly, mind.”

“This isn’t about moving,” John held the phone away as he stifled a painful groan.

“Oh? Then –”

“I need Sherlock’s number,” John said, ignoring him.

“No.”

“Mycroft, I’m not playing silly buggers, I need it because I’m going into heat and I need him to come over.”

“…”

“Mycroft!”

“… are you sure this is a heat? Perhaps you’re just ill.”

“Mycroft, I’m a bloody doctor, I know what’s going on,” John grit his teeth as his insides rolled. “Six years, and it’s happening _now._ ”

“Why aren’t you on suppressants?!”

“Because they were military-grade, and I’m a civilian, and seeing Sherlock yesterday must have kick-started this off, my body wants this and there’s fuck all I can do about it,” John yelled, wanting to reach through the phone and bash Mycroft’s head in. “I need Sherlock to come over, Mycroft, you know why.”

The pause on the other end of the line lasted a good ten seconds.

“Isn’t there anyone else you could… contact?” Mycroft asked, and John could hear him wincing.

“I’m bonded, so no,” he snapped, bracing himself on the chair as he felt his bowels jolt in a seriously concerning manner. “Mycroft, please.”

“I’ll contact him,” Mycroft said, eventually. “I’ll inform him of your… circumstances. But I cannot drag him to you if he doesn’t wish to come.”

“Then you’ll be coming to dispose of my body,” John snarled, “because I’ll die, Mycroft. My temperature will rise, and rise, and rise, and I’ll die. That’s what happens. Tell him I need him to come here. It doesn’t have to be anything. Just… help me.” He hung up, and staggered to the bathroom, not sure whether to throw up or plant himself on the toilet first.

 

*

 

Pre-heat – the painful cramps the proceeded the mounting lust and need to breed – usually lasted a couple of hours before giving way to slick and arousal and desire.

John’s pre-heat lasted an entire day.

He alternated between roaring hot and ice cold, rolling about on his bed before he had to get to the bathroom again to heave up the water he had drunk. His insides felt raw, and he couldn’t believe he was still standing after enduring what he could only assume was pain akin to appendicitis, only quadrupled. John couldn’t sleep much, snatching an hour here or there before being woken by the agony of his womb tensing and contracting, and his cervix dilating, ready to conceive.

John would take a hundred shots to the shoulder before reliving this.

His delirious mind sent him into a weird half-awake panic when he woke in pain, convinced he was back on the battlefield, that the carpet beneath his head was sand, that his rising temperature was due to the desert sun rather than his oestrus.

When the pre-heat pains began to fade, John forced himself to try and function. He had hours, at the most, before the next stage began. He was on his own, and there was no sign of Sherlock. If he had to try and get through this alone, he didn’t have to die any quicker than necessary. He drank a litre of water, and shoved a couple of energy sachets down his throat, and changed his bedsheets with trembling arms and hands, trying to hold back the rising panic in his chest, the ache that was starting in his pelvis, and how much he desperately needed to sleep.

More water, a shower, and John sat on the edge of his bed, feeling the inevitable coming. His insides were starting to ache properly, and there was a damp feeling between the cheeks of his arse.

And there was no Sherlock.

John picked up his phone, and checked it. No messages. No calls.

“Sherlock…” John sighed, pressing his phone into his forehead. “Fucksake.”

He was about to call Mycroft again when he was forced to put his phone down in a hurry. “Oh god!” He bent over in shock as slick suddenly ran from him, unfamiliar and wet and quite horrible, in John’s opinion.

“Oh…” he winced, putting a hand to the curve of his arse, fingers brushing the wetness. “Oh, shit…” He clenched his teeth, and whined as more slick came from his arse, his cock hardening as he touched at himself without really thinking about it, his fingers touching at his softening skin, natural lubricant warming and easing his way to pushing his middle finger inside himself, sighing out loud at the sensation. It felt good, but also dreadful – it just wasn’t thick enough – but now he’d penetrated himself, he knew that to stop would be a terrible mistake.

“Ah!” John slid the finger slowly in and out of himself, crouching on the bed for a better angle, quickly pushing another finger in for more width, ignoring the stretch, moaning softly as he thrust in and out of himself slowly, trying his best to prolong this, to not come straight away, to try and hold off the rising pleasure as he brushed over his prostate. “Oh, god…” John grit his teeth as he gently rubbed over his prostate, his cock throbbing at the same time as he thrust his fingers harder, the wet sound joined by embarrassed, ashamed moans. “Oh – ohhhhh…” John wrapped his fingers around his cock and pumped hard, fast, coming in a hot rush that sent fire and ice over his skin as he came, and his arse contracted around his fingers, searching for a knot that wasn’t there.

“Oh, fucking hell,” John flopped down on the mattress, pulling his fingers out of himself. “Fucking HELL.”

He had two minutes of catching his breath before he had to force his fingers back into his desperate hole.

 

*

 

As the day drew to a close, John’s room looked as though a bomb had gone off in it. There were bedsheets everywhere, disposable thermometers scattered over the desk, empty water bottles overflowing from the bin, and the air was thick with the scent of omega heat. John’s window didn’t open, and he was too scared to even think of opening the door. His phone had long since run out of battery, not that John noticed.

John was running entirely on instinct. Six years without a heat had tipped him over the edge and into the realm of mindless want. But _want_ for one alpha in particular – his mate.

And his mate was not here.

John couldn’t contemplate going to search for him – this was his nest, and he had to wait here for his alpha. His alpha would come to him, and they would mate and breed and make babies and nest and be together. He would come. His alpha would come.

It was alright that John’s temperature was soaring, that he had a huge dehydration headache no matter how much water he forced himself to drink. It was alright that John was shaking and the inside of his mouth was dry and his legs were soaking with slick. It was alright, because his alpha would come, and make everything ok. His alpha would come.

He would.

He had to.

John started sobbing.

Or continued sobbing, he wasn’t sure.

His alpha wasn’t coming.

He’d been abandoned.

No one wanted him.

No one loved him.

He’d been abandoned.

His mate was gone.

Tears rolled down his face, the only sensation he was aware of aside from the white noise in his ears. His head was banging, banging and crashing and screaming.

Wait.

That wasn’t in his head.

John wiped a hand down his face, and lifted his head off the ground.

BANG BANG BANG

“John! Johnnnn!”

BANG BANG BANG BANG

“John, give me some sign you’re alive, for god’s sake!”

John crawled from the nest he’d made on the floor, towards the door. “Sherlock?”

The banging stopped. “John? Oh John – open this door!”

“I…” John looked up at the locks. “Oh god, the locks…” he dragged himself upright. “How long have you been here?”

“Hours, I could hear you crying,” Sherlock’s voice broke as John undid the locks. “My omega, let me in, I need you –”

John wrenched open the door.

And fell into Sherlock’s arms.

There was a sharp pain at his throat – a bite on the not-healed site on the day before – and then Sherlock kicked the door shut and almost threw John onto the mattress.

“You… Mycroft…” John tried to speak as Sherlock dropped his clothes.

“He called me. Told me. I didn’t want to come,” Sherlock admitted, kicking off his shoes. “I thought… wouldn’t matter if…”

“Just save my damn life,” John reached for him. “Sherlock, please…”

Sherlock climbed up on the mattress and grabbed John’s legs, pulling him up close, arse up as he positioned his cock. “Fuck, my omega, I’m so sorry I kept you waiting…” he shoved inside, the soaking wet of John’s passage making it effortless.

John screamed. The sensation was unreal, his body desperate for this in a way he hadn’t thought possible as Sherlock thrust rapidly in and out of him, no time for preliminary kisses or touches – this was breeding and fucking in the most primal way, so hard that John didn’t notice his own dry orgasm, only heard Sherlock’s roar of pleasure as he thrust harder inside, rubbing over John’s prostate, his thick alpha cock nudging John’s cervix with snap of his hips, driving into him so the slap of their bodies mingled with harsh, broken moans.

Sherlock gave a final thrust forward, forcing his knot inside John, who keened in delight, finally getting what he needed as what felt like litres of come spilled inside him, flooding his omega womb, seeking to get him pregnant as quickly as possible.

Sherlock let out a breath, but didn’t collapse on top of John like the omega wanted.

“John…” he said, his voice much closer to normal. “John, please tell me you’re on the pill?”

John shook his head.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “This is just for your heat. Ok? I don’t want you to die. This… We can’t go from nothing to this and expect everything to be ok. This isn't like a film, we need to have a proper discussion about...”

John nodded, not really understanding. His alpha was saying things that didn’t make sense. “My Sherlock…” he reached for those dark curls.

Sherlock caught his hand, and kissed it. “John, you –” he groaned as he orgasmed again, his knot rubbing deliciously against John’s insides. “Oh, fuck.”

“It’s ok,” John breathed, “I… this is just heat, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock glanced at where they were connected. “ _This_ , this… week, this… few days… is just heat.”

John closed his eyes, and waited for the next wave of need to overcome him.


	5. Chapter 5

John’s heat lasted for four days.

He barely remembered anything but snatches of the days afterwards. He recalled Sherlock sponging him down with cool water. He just about remembered one instance of lowering himself onto Sherlock’s cock, moaning in pleasure as Sherlock sank deep inside him, the alpha’s hands on his hips and cock, stroking up his chest as he was the most beautiful creature on earth. He remembered one post-orgasmic cuddle, Sherlock still locked inside him as John half-cried against his chest with exhaustion. He remembered Sherlock kissing his neck, his arms, his hands, his cock… anywhere but his mouth.

“Uhnn…” John opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the curtained light. He felt unspeakably tired, despite just waking up, like his entire body had been through the mill. His arms and legs ached, his throat was sore, and his stomach felt weird – like indigestion or something. He realised with some queasiness that that was probably his reproductive system flooded with semen. “Uh…” he put a hand over his eyes.

“John?”

John dropped the hand, and sat up sharply, immediately regretting the move as his intestines complained. “Ow. Oh, that’s not good.”

“Here,” Sherlock handed him a glass of water. He was fully dressed, and smelled clean, like he’d had a very intense shower. John could barely smell his alpha scent.

“Thank you…” John put the glass down, undrunk. “You… you’re going, then?”

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. He certainly didn’t look like an alpha who’d spent three days fucking and knotting his omega mate every hour around the clock. He looked neat, and handsome, and smart, and John’s heart cracked just to look at him.

“I have to,” he said.

John nodded. “You saved my life, I… can’t ask more than that from you. I’m sorry it… was so sudden.”

“No, it was my doing,” Sherlock looked at the ceiling. “I… when you came to the flat. I don’t doubt that being physically intimate then was to blame. I… should have resisted, but I… couldn’t.”

“I didn’t say ‘no’,” John pointed out. “And you hardly knew I was going to turn up.”

Sherlock almost smiled. “True. But still… shared blame, I think, here.” He scratched the back of his head. “I thought you weren’t going to let me in.”

“I didn’t know you were there, I was off my head,” John smiled, then winced as his insides complained again. “That’s not something I want to repeat…” he looked up. “The time, I mean, between heats, it was so long since –”

Sherlock raised a gentle hand. “I know what you meant.”

A silence throbbed in the space between them. It felt very, very sad.

“Sherlock, what you said when –”

“I meant it,” Sherlock said quickly. “This… isn’t like the movies. We can’t just… kiss and make up.”

“I don’t expect us to. When I went over to you the other day… Christ, I only wanted to talk to you. And… finding out you were seeing someone…” John clenched the covers in his hands without thinking about it. He looked up. “Does he know you’re here?”

“Victor thinks I’m on a case,” Sherlock said. “It’s not unusual for me to be gone a few days, he’s used to it.”

John felt as though his chest was collapsing into a pit. “… is he kind?”

Sherlock looked up in surprise. “Y-yes. He is.”

“Do you love him?”

Sherlock sighed, but didn’t answer.

John bit his lip. “I wish he didn’t exist, but I’m glad you’re not on your own.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “I was. When you left, I realised just what _alone_ was.”

“Mycroft won’t tell me where you went. Why you stopped taking my calls. You…” John got out of bed, not caring he was naked, and pulled the package of letters from his drawer. “Look! I wrote to you every week for five years. They were all returned.”

Sherlock didn’t reach for them. “I didn’t know.”

“Mrs Hudson sent the first ones back, apparently,” John sighed, “as you were _uncontactable_.”

A pink tinge appeared on Sherlock’s cheeks. “That’s true.”

John stared at him. “What happened to you?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and looked at the ceiling, again. “John… you don’t need to know. I don’t want to cause you unnecessary distress, it’s not your burden. We’re… we’re not –”

“Sherlock, I love you,” John said. “I love you, and I’m sorry for leaving like I did, but I had to.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Yes, you made your priorities quite clear. John – you’re my mate. That’s a biological, legal fact. But we aren’t children, anymore. I think we need to come to terms with the fact that we want different things.”

“What?” John stepped back.

“You want your career,” Sherlock said. “You want to be a doctor, and you made it clear that that was what you wanted the most.”

John could barely speak. “I… Sherlock, I want _you_.”

“Because you’re back,” Sherlock spoke over him. “It’s alright, I understand your instincts will force you to seek out protection, and your mate is the most logical solution for that, but after what you did…”

John’s mouth snapped shut.

“… I can’t risk that happening again,” Sherlock finished. “It was… a lapse of my self-control that I don’t wish to repeat. I have a career of my own, now, and I have a partner who isn’t with me because his biology tells him he has to be.”

“I… wasn’t with you because I had to be,” John said, his voice very small all of a sudden.

“But you were,” Sherlock insisted. “You were the victim of terrible, unforgivable abuse. You were an omega who needed protection. Mycroft told me you even asked him to take you after he rescued you from Siger. You… it isn’t your fault,” he started towards John, who held a hand up.

“You think I felt nothing?” John gasped. “You think… that was all omega instincts and trying to get you to take care of me? Sherlock – I told you to go away in my first heat.”

“And I did, because I loved you more than as just a possible mate.”

“I… Sherlock, I warned you,” John said, starting to well up, “when I was going to leave, I warned you I was going to… You knew I was leaving, you knew I was going into heat…”

“And you expected me to resist that?”

“YES!” John shouted. “Yes, if all this shit you’ve just told me about caring for me as more than just some omega is true, you should have stayed the fuck away. Christ, I wanted to bond with you, even if it’d be painful because I thought we could stay in touch, not because I wanted to hear nothing from you for six years – I thought you were dead! I thought about you every single day, and it hurt every single day, too. I left you because I thought I’d be someone you wanted to stay in touch with. That you loved me enough for that, god, you’d give that much to a friend, never mind someone you claim to love. I thought I meant something to you, as a person, as John Watson, not just some omega you can’t stand, but apparently not.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock said darkly, “no idea what you tearing our bond to its limits did to me.”

“Then tell me. Stop these fucking secrets, and tell me.”

“What’s the point?” Sherlock picked up his coat. “The only time we’re not arguing with one another is when we’re having sex, and I don’t think that’s enough of a reason to start this again.”

“So what – you’re buggering off until I need you again?” John shoved the letters into Sherlock’s arms. “Take these. They were for you. Maybe you’ll see that you meant more to me than you’ve convinced yourself.”

Sherlock looked as if he’d very much like to drop them, but put them into a carrier bag snatched off the floor, instead. “Fine. John, I don’t want us to be on bad terms –”

“You sound like your brother,” John folded his arms.

“- but I do think this is for the best. You don’t need me, to be happy.”

John blinked. That wasn’t what Sherlock had said before. “I – what?”

Sherlock went for the door. “I wrote my number in your diary. If you need me… like this, again… Perhaps… if we keep our distance, our bond will break, as my parents’ did.”

“Not as long as I’m having heats,” John pointed out. “and you’re fine coming over to _service_ me, just not to stay with me any longer than you have to. Sherlock…” John’s voice broke, “I never thought you do this to me. I knew you’d be angry, I knew you’d not want to make up right away, but… you honestly want to draw a line under all this? Sherlock – I love you.”

Sherlock put his hand on the handle. “I loved you, John, and it nearly killed me.”

John gasped. “But…” he dropped a hand to his navel. “Sherlock, I could be…”

“Then maybe you should think about what to do about that,” Sherlock sighed. “The last thing this needs is another person being involved. Goodbye, John.”

 

*

 

John sat at his desk for a long time, when he was showered and napped and dressed, and feeling slightly more human.

He had a list in front of him.

 

**Cons:**

**Money**

**Space**

**Potential flatmates???**

**Mess**

**Lack of sleep**

**Lack of experience**

**Time**

**Pros:**

**A bit of Sherlock**

**No more punishing heats**

**Someone to love**

He put his pencil down, and rested his head on the piece of paper.

There was, of course, no guarantee he was pregnant. Heats aside, his fertility could likely be fucked from all the drugs he’d pumped into his system. But if he was fertile… lots of sex during heat…

He could be pregnant.

He could be.

He probably wasn’t, but he could be.

John knew the odds – after six years of heavy suppressant use, his ovaries were technically inactive – if they released an egg a year he’d be surprised. He’d done the training, he knew the maths. He knew the risks, when he started on them. He’d never been too worried about a family, when he was eighteen, nineteen… when he was twenty-one some of his comrades started becoming fathers, and that stung slightly. Alright, quite a bit…

Babies in general didn’t interest him, but Sherlock’s baby…

Sherlock, who said what they had had was over. That he didn’t love John, anymore. That he’d rather have his job and his beta boyfriend than John.

He didn’t want John.

Or the heartbreak he was convinced would come with him.

John groaned, and banged his head on the desk, looking up in despair at himself. He should just go out, get an after-heat pill, and draw a line under all this. If he had another heat, he could talk to Sherlock about it. He couldn’t just have a baby out of the blue. Sherlock would think he’d done it deliberately to trap him.

If Sherlock had to know.

He hadn’t seemed to care.

Unless that was a bluff.

Unless he thought John wouldn’t want a baby – after all, he’d been apparently dead against pregnancy so far.

John bit his pencil. If he was pregnant, he could have the baby and look after it on his own. He wouldn’t need Sherlock anymore, because he wouldn’t have heats for nine months, and then afterwards they wouldn’t be the breed-or-die horrors they might be – omegas’ drive to breed was less forceful after a pregnancy.

But John didn’t have anywhere to live, he didn’t have a flat, or enough money to stay in London on his own… Mycroft was a dead end.

He just wanted Sherlock to love him again.

He covered his face with his hands, fighting back tears. If he was going to have a shot at getting Sherlock back, the last thing he needed was to turn up with a big belly and a truckload of guilt.

No, this was stupid. He should definitely go and get the pill.

Definitely.

 


	6. Chapter 6

John was grateful for the autumn wind, which justified him wrapping a scarf around his neck, hiding his raw neck-bite. He’d smeared it in antiseptic, but it was really sore and inflamed from all the biting Sherlock had inflicted during his heat – a regular bond bite would have been re-bitten enough to form into scar tissue by now, but John’s was obviously not.

He walked through the high-street to the pharmacy, head down, stomach churning with nerves and guilt.

In truth, he still didn’t know what to do. He’d never been so torn about anything in his life, including running away to the army – this was a potential life at stake, one he could find himself solely responsible for, if he chose one path, at least.

His plan was to get the pill, go for a walk, have a think somewhere that wasn’t soaked in alpha and omega pheromones, and try to come to a decision. He had until the end of the day to pop the pill, so it was wise to have it on hand.

He crossed the road, and went into the chain pharmacy, trying not to look like some wanton omega who shagged anyone during a heat. What was the point, though? They were going to think that anyway.

“Can I help you?” the girl on the till smiled.

“Er, yeah, can I speak to the pharmacist, please?” John said, grateful for his scarf.

“Sure. Let me just get him for you.”

John loitered around, looking at the display of lollipops and gum until he heard someone approach the desk.

“Hello there, how can I – oh, hello again!” A cheery voice made him look up in shock.

“O-hell…oh…” John swallowed hard.

Victor – Sherlock’s Victor – stood, smiling pleasantly in a white coat, a badge on his front naming him as the pharmacist in charge.

“Sorry about the other day,” Victor went on. “Did you get sorted, with Sherlock?”

“Sherlock…”

“You had a case, right?” Victor blinked.

“Yes, sorry,” John tapped his head. “Got a stinking headache… rough few days.”

Victor smiled sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it. I guess Sherlock didn’t take your case? He hasn’t mentioned it.”

“No,” John bit back something he might regret saying, “no, he said it wasn’t worth his time.”

Victor winced. “Sorry, he can be a bit blunt. You knew him… before, I take it?”

“A little.” John looked at the floor, trying to remember how to breathe properly.

“So… how can I help you today?”

_I need the morning after pill?_

_No – Sherlock’s been away for four days. You’ll suspect._

_Good. Serves him right._

_No, not good. This is Sherlock’s fault, not this man’s…_

_Shit._

“Um, I was wondering if you had anything stronger than paracetamol,” John touched his head again. “This headache just won’t shift.”

“There’s not a lot you can take without a doctor’s prescription,” Victor said. He took a box off the shelf behind him. “These are pretty good, but you’ll have to take ibuprofen in-between them, too. Are you doing that?”

“I will do,” John took out his wallet, and paid for the box of tablets, hating every moment. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Victor closed the till. “If it gets worse, go to A&E, or a walk-in, ok? Don’t just suffer.”

_Ha ha ha._

“Thanks…” he put the bag in his coat pocket. “Have – have you and Sherlock been together long?”

Victor laughed. “Depends what you count as ‘together’. On and off for a few years, I guess. He’s b… it’s a bit complicated, but I moved in about nine months ago. It’s pretty good.”

 _It’s complicated because he’s bonded, you mean_ , John thought. “I’m glad to hear it,” he lied.

“Yeah, he’s a pain in the arse, but he’s my pain in the arse, if you get me? I know alphas are meant to be like the caretakers and so on, but I don’t know, I think maybe because I’m a beta that works better for him? I get to take care of him, as much as he pretends not to like it, I do catch him smiling now and then.”

John forced a smile of his own. “Good to know he’s… happy.”

“Yeah, he is. We are,” Victor smiled, genuine happiness on his face, and John wanted to scream. “Take care, mate, and do go to be checked over if it gets worse, ok?”

“I will,” John nodded, and left the shop feeling as though his insides had been scraped out with a rusty spoon.

 

*

 

John got a coffee (ordering decaf through some weird knee-jerk that made him half-hate his subconscious), and sat on one of the benches in the park, thinking.

Or staring, it was difficult to say how much thinking he was doing when the only thing in his head was white noise and worry.

On some level, John had hoped that Sherlock’s new relationship would be unhappy. That it would be miserable, or forced, or the two men were living together purely for convenience. But, after meeting Victor, John could plainly see this wasn’t the case. Victor was, as much as it hurt to admit, a lovely man. He seemed genuinely happy, and to care for Sherlock. And Sherlock must feel the same way. His guilt after being with John had been too acute.

They were in love.

John sipped his coffee, giving his shaking hands something to do.

He watched the passers-by, the omegas with their prams, the alphas carrying their children on their shoulders, the happy family groups that he would never be a part of. But, maybe, he could be. He was still a doctor. He could get a new job, find a flat, start his own family, even if it was lonely. He’d have no more harsh heats, and he could look after a baby, love it, give it the best of everything. He had his pension, and his pay-out from getting shot, and doctors didn’t earn bad money, even if he did have to work part time.

Having a baby was far from the worst thing that could happen to him.

Sherlock was right.

It was time to draw a line under all this.

But John didn’t have to do it alone.

 

*

 

“So, Captain, have you got any further –”

“I haven’t received my injury compensation yet,” John said firmly. “It’s been a month.”

The desk corporal typed. It was the same man from a month ago, and John had to wonder if the young man had ever seen combat. Probably not, he looked as if the most dangerous thing he did was use a letter-opener.

“It says it’s processing, sir. I’ll send them an email…” he opened a new window and began typing.

John looked through the rest of his documents as he did so. The papers had hardly seemed worth looking at last month, but now it was most definitely time to get his affairs in order.

“That’s sent. That generally gets them to look at it quicker.”

“Thank you,” John said. “And I’ll need another month in the halfway hostel. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Not found a flat yet, sir?”

 _I haven’t exactly been looking_. “Not yet, but there’s a few things looking promising.”

“Alright, well, you’re welcome to keep using your room,” the corporal said. “There’s no one on the waiting list.”

“Thanks,” John stood. “And thanks for chasing that claim up. I could use the money.”

“I know the feeling, sir. See you again?”

“Hopefully not,” John said, saluting before leaving.

It had been a tough few weeks.

John had half-heartedly started looking at flats, but then realised he didn’t know how many bedrooms he needed. One, at the minimum, but what about in the long-term? His compensation claim would never buy a flat, but it would tide over the rent for a good while, if he ended up taking time off…

He hadn’t taken a pregnancy test.

Not wanting to risk a false positive in the first few weeks, John had promised himself to wait until after his check-in with the Army before buying a test. It had been torment. Every slight symptom he convinced himself he was, then couldn’t be, then maybe was, then was maybe just dreaming.

He didn’t feel sick or tired, at least, but that just made him worry that he wasn’t, and then feel guilty for worrying that he wasn’t.

And if he was, he’d have to decide whether or not to tell Sherlock. If he told him, it might seem like he was trying to trap Sherlock (and as much as John still woke up achingly lonely in the night, he had no desire to trick or trap his mate into returning), but if he kept it a secret and Sherlock one day found out, there’d be no going back, not ever.

Sherlock already didn’t trust him.

This was a nightmare.

Still thinking about his injury claim, John bought a pack of two tests from the supermarket, not wanting to risk seeing Victor at the chemist’s, grabbing the first box he saw and gruffly throwing it onto the conveyer with a fierce blush.

The cashier gave him a knowing look, glancing at his bond-bite as she scanned them through. “That’s three pounds, dear.”

John blipped his card on the reader.

“Thank you…” she wrapped the box in a bag. “Hope you get the result you want,” she winked.

John made a strangled noise, and left the shop in a hurry.

He didn’t know what result he wanted.

Once back in his room, he stared at the box as though it might explode. It was taunting him, with its pink and blue splashes, a happy omega woman on the side, laughing as she presumably got the positive result she was looking for.

John opened the box, and tipped out the contents.

There was a sheet of instructions, and John sat and read through the entire thing, knowing he was severely procrastinating at this point.

And then, there was nothing for it.

John picked up one of the sticks, and took it into the bathroom, feeling slightly stupid as he pissed on it, then put the cap on the end, and waited.

Three minutes, it said.

It felt like three hours.

John took the stick back into the bedroom, and put it on the desk.

He took out his phone, and switched the stopwatch on.

The milliseconds spun around, the seconds ticking by infuriatingly slowly.

Two minutes.

John started biting the skin around his thumb.

Two minutes thirty.

Forty.

Fifty.

Three minutes.

John clicked off the stopwatch, and darted to the desk, snatching up the stick.

A single pink line looked back at him.

“Oh.” John looked away, then back at it again.

One line.

He picked up the instructions.

**How To Read Your Results:**

****

_Once three minutes have elapsed, results will be shown._

_One pink line = no pregnancy detected._

_Two pink lines = pregnancy detected._

 

John looked back at the stick.

One pink line.

No pregnancy detected.

“Oh…” John sat down in his desk chair. “Oh, ok. That’s that, then.” He put the stick down. “That’s ok, then.”

Except no. It wasn’t.

Crushing disappointment steamrollered into him, then. He put his head on the desk with a bang, and didn’t even bother trying not to cry. Tears rolled down his nose and cheeks, soaking the wood, and kept coming as he tried to wipe them away, wetting his jumper sleeves, smearing tears across his skin, tasting salt, his chest shaking as great heaving sobs started to wrack through his body.

He’d told himself he didn’t know what result he wanted.

What a huge lie that had been to himself.

He picked up the stick again, sobbing, his vision wobbling as he looked at the stupid thing.

Was that…

He wiped his eyes quickly, and stared.

Was that…

He held it close.

It looked like a shadow. Not a line. Surely just the watermark for the chemicals on the stick to react. He was being desperate. It was just the test paper.

He could try it again.

John grabbed the second stick, and lurched back into the toilet, managing to just pee on it enough before clicking the cap on.

And this time, he sat and watched.

The first line – the proof the test was working – jumped up instantly.

He crossed his fingers.

A tiny bleed of pink blossomed at the very edge of the test window.

John leaned close.

The line was faint. It was barely there – a pearly pink that hardly showed at all.

“Oh my god…” John picked up the test, and cradled it in his hands. “What does that mean?” He fished out his phone, and did a quick search:

**_faint line pregnancy test omega_ **

The results were mixed.

Some advocated a hospital visit – John’s embryo might not have implanted at all.

Some recommended a more expensive pregnancy test than the own-brand one John had risked.

Some said watch, and wait.

“Fuck that,” John muttered, grabbing the two tests and putting them together. There was a barely-there line on both of them, now. He grabbed his wallet, and left the sticks on the desk, heading out to get a cab.

 

*

 

Four tests, and £20 later, John was lying on his bed, a hand on his abdomen, looking at a result spelled out for him on a test that looked more high-tech than his phone:

**Pregnant: 3-4 weeks**

He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support with this fic! It means a lot to me to see so many lovely comments, kudos and subscriptions!


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m pregnant.”

The doctor looked over at him. “Have you done more than one test, just to be sure?”

“Yeah,” John held back a smile, thinking of the events of a couple of nights ago.

“Ok,” the doctor clicked something on his PC, and typed. “First pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“And it says on the form you filled in at the desk that you’re bonded… but separated, is that right?”

“That’s… that’s right, yeah,” John shifted on the seat. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s not a problem for me,” the doctor opened another form, and clicked for the information to auto-fill. “How do you feel about it?”

John considered. “A bit shit.”

“Well, quite.” He turned to face John properly. “What is it that makes you feel shit?”

John laced his hands together. “I guess… the whole doing it alone, thing. And… how to tell him. And…” he puffed out a breath, “and I don’t want him to feel like he has to be there, because he doesn’t want _me_ , but if he wants to be around for the baby then that’d be great. I just… don’t want to pressure him. He’s going to be pretty angry as it is.”

“You say he doesn’t want to be with you, but you have been bonded a long time?”

“It was before I enlisted, and… we didn’t really speak. It’s complicated. We’ve only just got back in touch, and I had a heat… he was kind enough to come over.”

“Kind enough,” the doctor raised his eyebrows. “Some people might say that’s responsibility.”

“But I don’t want him to feel like he _has_ to take responsibility,” John said. “I want him to be with me because he wants to be. Not because of bites and heats and genders.”

The doctor nodded. “That makes sense.” He clicked something else, and the screen cleared. “I don’t have any worries about you being a single parent, John, but I would like to send you for some counselling, given your past mental health.”

“Thank you,” John said, realising he needed it. “I appreciate that.”

“And I highly recommend talking to the alpha involved,” the doctor added. “You said you want to give him the option of being part of this, well, he needs to know, first.”

“Yes,” John sighed, glumly. “You’re right.”

“Now, I’ve booked you in for a midwife’s appointment in a few weeks, and your first scan a few weeks after that… this is a prescription for omega prenatal vitamins, and I advise you to keep up a decent diet and gentle exercise for as long as possible. And…” he smiled, “congratulations.”

“Thanks,” John blushed, realising the doctor was the first person to say that, to him.

Though probably not the last.

“Oh,” John said, stopping just before the door. “This might sound a bit weird, but… are there any jobs going at the surgery?”

The doctor blinked. “There are, actually. On-call stuff, you know. Why, you interested?”

“Yes!” John laughed. “Got to start saving up, now.”

“Very true,” the doctor scribbled on a post-it, and handed it over. “Take that to reception, and ask to speak to Sarah. She’s the one to talk to.”

 

*

 

John left the GP Surgery with a paper bag of vitamins, a green booklet to fill in about his pregnancy, and a job.

Not a full-time job, but on-call and locum work that might just get him enough hours in the months he had to buy some baby things. The doctor who spoke to him, Sarah, was thrilled to take on a male omega doctor, and promised to set him up with shifts as of the next week. It was the best John could have hoped for. He could take a few months off after the baby was born, and then look for something full-time.

It seemed perfect.

He smiled to himself at the bus stop, flicking through the green booklet.

“Aw, do you like that, honey?”

He looked up to see an omega woman cooing at twins in a large pram. He smiled at them. The woman caught his eye, and noticed the booklet in his hands.

“Oo, you next,” she teased. “You’re not showing yet!”

“Oh, no,” John blushed. “No, first appointment today.”

“Uh, I don’t miss being pregnant,” the woman sighed. “Then again, it was easier than having two of them on your own all day.”

“On your own?” John glanced at the woman’s neck, seeing a bond bite with a daisy tattoo near it.

“My mate works,” she explained. “I only see him at night, so sometimes it feels a bit like being a single mum.”

“Oh…”

“Yes, they never mention that bit, do they?” she laughed. “Still… I don’t suppose you’ve had a scan, yet?”

“No, not for another seven weeks, maybe?”

“Hopefully you won’t have twins,” she looked at her own. “They’re beautiful, yes, but they’re exhausting.”

John looked at the babies, one of them chewing her fist, the other asleep with a dummy in her mouth.

A bus pulled up.

“Oh, that’s me,” the woman jumped up. “Nice to meet you!”

“And you,” John called as she shoved her pram onto the bus. He sat, watching it pull away, a sinking feeling in his chest and stomach, but also a sense of resignation.

Alphas didn’t do a lot of child-rearing. Maybe this wouldn’t be so different to anyone else, after all.

Feeling a spark of energy, John put his booklet and medicine in his bag, and set off walking, taking the way home that he knew passed several estate agencies.

 

*

 

“I can cope with one bedroom,” he said, filling in a tick-box form, “but I’ve ticked two as well. Just… on the off-chance.”

“How about a share?” the woman asked.

“No, I’m an omega,” John pointed out.

“We do have a few omega flat-shares on the books –”

“And I’m pregnant,” John added.

Her hands stopped on the files. “And – and you’re looking on your own?”

“…yes?”

She took the paper out of his hands. “Sorry, Mr Watson, I don’t think we have the sort of thing you’re looking for.”

“What? I just want to rent somewhere,” he said, bewildered.

“Yes, but we don’t tend to cater for –”

“This is discrimination.”

“Fallen omegas –”

John gasped, and stood, knocking his chair backwards. “How dare you? I want to speak to your manager.”

“Sir, I own this branch,” she tapped her badge. “Sorry. There’s nothing here for you.”

John had never felt so ashamed and embarrassed in his life. “You can expect a letter from my solicitor,” he lied, hoping he sounded frightening.

The woman looked nonplussed as he slammed his way out of the door, shaking, feeling as though everyone in the word was watching and knew what had happened in that tiny showroom.

He was tempted to get a cab home and hide, but forced himself into the next estate agency, where he had more luck, and was given a bundle of possible flats to look at, and a promise they’d call if anything else came up.

But the incident had shaken John up.

He walked the rest of the way home, ignoring his stomach, which complained in hunger, and his legs, which were aching. He didn’t really think of anything until he’d locked his room door, and was sitting on his bed in silence.

No matter how many kind doctors or modern thinkers there were, there were always going to be those people who thought he was being selfish, irresponsible, or ‘fallen’ in some way.

John touched a hand to his abdomen, flat as ever, muscular from army training. Not the soft tummy of an omega. He looked up, at the mirror over the desk. He had cropped hair that was refusing to grown out, a nose that had been broken once in operations, and beneath his clothes were scars aplenty.

No wonder Sherlock didn’t want him.

John could have grown up to be a beautiful, cherished mate. Instead, he’d run away and become someone who looked more like a beta, and acted like an idiot.

He drew his knees up, and cuddled himself close, trying to feel less alone.

Sherlock hadn’t gotten in touch. John could only assume he hadn’t read the letters.

Maybe John would never know where Sherlock had been those years. What had changed him from a caring alpha into one John barely recognised. What had made him believe John only cared for him because his instincts told him to.

It wasn’t that, at all. John loved Sherlock the man, not Sherlock the alpha. John loved the Sherlock who had bought him Easter eggs. The man who had taken him to the museums, and done his homework with him, and cuddled him on the sofa as they half-watched films together. The one who had waited months and years for John to be ready for him.

This one… the one who existed now, wasn’t the Sherlock John remembered.

Something had happened to him. Something had changed him.

Or some _one_.

John wiped his face, and fished in his bag for his prenatal vitamins. He needed to pull himself together.

 

*

 

John looked up, halfway through his breakfast.

He dropped the spoon with a clatter, and ran to the bathroom, cheeks bulging as he flicked the toilet seat up and heaved.

“Uh…” he knelt up as he flushed it, wincing and dragging himself up to the sink to wash his mouth out. “Guess that’s just the start…” He swished mouthwash around his mouth, and spat. His stomach cramped again, but he wasn’t sick.

And it was just the start.

John’s morning sickness started at the same time as his first shifts at the GP. He managed to do most of his throwing up in the mornings, drag himself into work, and stay there until six, when he’s get the bus home and try not to fall asleep and miss his stop.

No one told him being pregnant was this exhausting, especially when he was only six or seven weeks along.

“The patients seem to really like you, John,” Sarah said, one evening. “I think it’s nice for some of the younger people to see a male omega in a position of authority, too.”

John smiled, though he badly wanted to close his eyes and pass out. “That’s good to know.”

“How would you feel about doing a bit more on-call in the community? The police are always looking for doctors to verify deaths and so on?”

“Sign me up,” John shrugged. He could use the money. “Not like I’m doing anything else.”

Sarah gave him a squeeze on the arm. “How’re you feeling? You’ve look a bit peaky these past few mornings.”

“Throwing up,” John admitted. “Usually first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Can’t stomach dairy, or fish, and I can’t even look at an egg.”

“Ouch,” she winced in sympathy. “Still, it usually gets better after twelve weeks or so. When do you see your midwife?”

“Saturday,” John yawned. “Sorry, I’m –”

“Exhausted,” Sarah stood. “Come on, we can share a cab.”

John didn’t have it in him to disagree, and pretended not to notice Sarah’s look of concern when they arrived at his hostel. He gave her some money and thanks for the cab as he got out into the rain, and let himself into the empty hostel, where all that waited for him was laundry and ready-meals and silence.

 

*

 

“Have you brought me a sample?” the beta midwife boomed at him. She was about five feet tall and had the largest breasts John had ever seen. She also had a friendly smile, and made John feel instantly at ease.

“Here,” John handed over the little pot of pee. “Feels weird to be on the giving side of the pisspot, I have to say.”

She laughed, making the table top rattle. “I bet. You know doctors usually make terrible patients, don’t you? I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Dr Watson,” her eyes sparkled with mischief, and John decided he liked her. “Now – any sickness?”

“Loads,” John admitted. “Morning and night.”

“Have you lost any weight?”

“I don’t know, I don’t own any scales,” John admitted. “But maybe a bit.”

She nodded, and scribbled a note. “My advice is to eat what you feel like eating. Even if it’s dry bread and cheese. What you want, when you want it, until this sickness passes. Calories in.”

“Al-alright.”

“Now, family history… any inherited diseases we need to know about?”

“Nothing… except a few mental health issues. On both sides,” John said, looking at the floor.

“Yes, you’ve got counselling after this, I understand?”

“Mm.”

“And what gender were your parents?”

“Both betas.”

“And your… the father of your baby’s?”

“Alpha and omega mates,” John sighed. “They had two of each.”

“Well, you know baby won’t be a beta,” she said, “but obviously the odds are on an alpha child… they’re just more common statistically. How do you feel about that?”

“I… haven’t thought about it,” John said. “I don’t care what gender the baby is.”

“Have you discussed gender testing, at all?”

“No, but I don’t care,” John said again. “I just want them born healthy.”

The midwife nodded, ticking a few boxes. “Very wise. Now, John… have you told the father of the baby about your pregnancy, yet?”

John went red.

The midwife gave him a disapproving look. “John, you need to tell him. This isn’t something you can keep a secret forever. I’m sure he’d rather hear it from you than as second-hand gossip from someone else.”

 _Like Mycroft_ , John thought bitterly.

“I’ll tell him,” he promised.

 

*

 

John came out of his counselling session an hour later, feeling rather relaxed, but uneasy at the same time. He’d had to talk about the baby, and then _to_ the baby, which felt downright odd as the thing was probably the size of a pip. But if that’s what it took to be taken seriously as a solo parent, he was happy to do it.

He called into the Costa in the hospital before leaving, sensing his blood sugar was low – certainly nothing a hot chocolate wouldn’t cure. He sat at one of the tables with his frothy, marshmallow-covered drink, and read through his notes. Everything was fine. He was healthy, there was no protein in his pee, and he was booked in for a scan in five weeks.

He really, really had to tell Sherlock, though.

The last thing he needed was to be spotted waddling around in weeks to come. Sherlock would never forgive him.

Sighing, John took out his phone, and scrolled through to Sherlock’s number.

He didn’t want to do this over the phone. Mycroft probably had it tapped.

“John?”

John looked up. There was no one there.

“Here,” a hand waved across his vision, from the right. “Over here, daydreamer.” The hand was red, scarred, the skin bubbled up like toffee in a saucepan.

John looked.

He dropped his phone onto the table.

“Oh my god…”

“We really must stop meeting like this,” James Sholto half-grinned, the smile not meeting his eyes as the fierce scars and burns on one side of his face stretched painfully. His right eye was bleached white, and there was a lightning-jagged scar of white running through the red – where his face had been sewn back together.

“Yeah,” John breathed. “Yeah, we really must.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support with this fic! It means a lot to me to see so many lovely comments, kudos and subscriptions!


	8. Chapter 8

James gave a smile, or a half-smile, at any rate. He picked up his coffee, and came to join John at his table. John swept his things to one side, trying not to stare, but wanting to stare so much it was like trying to hold back a sneeze.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” James said. His speech had a tiniest slur to it – product of the stretched skin beside his mouth. The scars were awful – there was no point in denying that they weren’t – but they didn’t take away from the handsome charm of the alpha soldier.

“Didn’t expect to see you, either,” John said, tearing his eyes away, and taking a sip of his drink. There was a pause before he put the cup down. “So… what happened to you?”

James didn’t miss a beat. He grinned widely, his good eye sparkling with mischief. “What’d you think happened, Watson? Shark attack, of course.”

John spluttered, then burst out laughing, though he wanted to cry. “Oh my god.”

James laughed with him. “Nah… gas canister in an abandoned building. Returning fire and the whole thing exploded. Lucky to get out of it at all, to be honest.” He folded his hands on the table-top. One of them was unharmed. “I heard you got shot.”

“Yeah, in the shoulder,” John tapped his arm, thinking about the metal that was hidden beneath. “I… I didn’t hear about you…”

“Well, heroic doctors tend to make the gossip rounds,” James said. “Idiot grunts who nearly blow themselves up… not so much.” He stroked a finger down his own jaw.

“Christ…” John raised a hand, to touch the bubbled-up skin on his friend’s face.

_He could touch, and see._

_John took a breath, and reached out, touching the other boy’s jaw, dragging up, testing for stubble. Finding the barest scratch._

_“What’re you doing?” Sholto half-laughed._

_“You’ve learnt to shave properly, then?” John took his hand away, grinning._

_“Oi, this is a genuine shark-attack scar,” Sholto stuck his chin out. “Look, you can see the teeth-marks!”_

_“As if!” John laughed, leaning away._

_“No, go on, look!”_

_“No!”_

_“Look, I think there’s still a tooth embedded in the corner.”_

_“James!”_

_John fell back, and Sholto tumbled on top of him, and for a moment they both froze, shocked at their own daring and closeness._

_Siger yanked John backwards, against his chest, pinning him hard with his own arms crossed and held tight in front of him._

_John let out a cry, but didn’t fight more. The sensation of being held by this alpha was overpowering – he had almost no will to fight. His inner omega, still dormant for the most part, was trying desperately to keep him from harm. And the easiest way to do that, was to submit._

_“You’re a disgrace,” Siger snarled. “Not only playing rough sports like some common beta, but I smell a teenage alpha on you. When were you going to own up to that?”_

_John couldn’t speak. He just shook his head._

_“What – did he force you?”_

_“N-no.”_

_“Then you’re a slut already.”_

John dropped his hand, balling it into a fist at the memories. His heart thundering at the stress the old mental images had forced onto him. They’d slammed into his head with no warning. Possibly the openness of therapy less than an hour ago was part of the problem. Maybe it was the fact James was here. Maybe it was the fact James wasn’t John’s alpha, and John’s womb was currently occupied.

He looked away, trying to ground himself, to look normal.

James made a kind face. “PTSD?”

John looked up. Then gave a single nod. _Not war, though_ , he added silently.

James nodded. “We all get it. It’s ok. You need a minute?”

“I’m ok,” John took a drink, focussing on the chocolate taste. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to touch you. My own fault.”

_Shouldn’t have tried to touch you when I was eleven. Shouldn’t have tried to touch you now. Shouldn’t have let you have sex with me in the barracks. Fuck, I’ve made so many mistakes when it comes to you…_

“No, no, it’s fine,” James insisted. “It makes people curious, I’m used to it. And it’s not like we’ve never –” he stopped, his mouth clicking shut. “Anyway.”

John blushed. “Yeah, let’s not go there.”

“Let’s not,” James agreed. He cleared his throat. “So… what’re you in for? Shoulder stuff?”

“No,” John said, before he could help himself, “no, I…” he tried to think of a convincing lie, glancing down at his notes.

James followed his eye-line. Then looked up in shock as he read the heading on the booklet. “Oh! Oh, right,” he swallowed. “Well… congrats.” His good eye flicked down to John’s flat stomach.

“Thanks,” John mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

“I bet Sherlock is pleased,” James sniffed, his opinion of Sherlock all-too obvious.

“He doesn’t know,” John said, miserably. “I haven’t told him yet.”

James frowned. “Eh? How does that work?”

“We’re not together.”

“…I don’t get it.”

“I had a heat, he came over, we fucked, and this is the result,” John poked his belly. “That’s all there is to it. We’re still bonded, but we’re not together. He’s got a boyfriend. Some beta.”

A look of pure murder passed over James’ face before he reined it in. “Right. So he’s… just leaving you to get on with it.”

“He doesn’t know.”

James blinked, and shook his head. “But you had a heat? So… odds are you’d get pregnant, right? And he hasn’t gotten in touch?”

John looked at the table.

James made a sort of seething snarling noise. “Shit, John, I know we sort of had a… moment… I know you didn’t want it to go anywhere, and that’s fine, but why’d you go back to _him_? Six years and no contact, and now this?”

“He’s my mate,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I still… I can’t explain it. I needed to see him, to try and make things up. And one thing led to another… And now this.” _I love him. I love him and miss him so much it hurts just to sit here and think about it_.

“So… what? He’s going to stay with this beta? What’s so special about them?”

“God, I wish I could hate him – that beta,” John said. “I’ve met him. He’s… nice. He’s kind, and he’s not a bad person. He works in a pharmacy, helping people. You couldn’t make it up.”

James stared. “Sherlock is dating some beta pharmacist? John… I got to be honest… That sounds like a low-budget version of you – an omega doctor.”

John blinked. He hadn’t thought of that.

“It’s like he’s replacing you.”

“It’s his choice. He can do what he likes. I’m… I’m just going to have to suck it up.”

James scratched his scars, then tore his hand away, cursing. A tiny fleck of blood shone at his temple. “Fuck, ow. So… are you going to tell him? I think you kind of have to.”

“I do have to,” John agreed. “I… I want to tell him. But I don’t want him to feel like he has to drop everything and suddenly be a proper mate, again. That’s… not what this is. I think he’s going to think I’ve done this on purpose, to trap him.”

“Hey, it takes two to tango,” James pointed out. “And he’s meant to be smart, right? He must know.”

“He’ll assume I got an after-heat pill,” John sighed. “He’ll be angry I didn’t. He’ll say I’ve done this to force him to be with me.”

“Have you?”

“No!” John held his hands up. “Fuck no. I…” he sighed. “I’m being realistic, here. I’m a bonded omega. I can’t have children with anyone except Sherlock. And this might be my only chance. If I got rid of this… I’d still have to have Sherlock come over for my heats. We’d keep making potential babies and I’d keep on not having them, and I don’t know how long I could keep that up. Seeing him every month or so, and the both of us leaving in anger again. This… might be my only real chance to be a mum. And I can do it on my own. I’ve got a job, and it might lead to something permanent. I’m a decent age, ish, and it just makes sense. I want this,” he put his hand on his abdomen, “but I’m not insisting anyone else has to be a part of it.”

James stared, for a moment, then smiled. “Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted.” He picked up his coffee.

“Yeah, just flat hunting,” John shrugged. “Don’t want to stay holed up in the hostel for much longer. Shit, isn’t it?”

James choked on his drink, coughing and banging on his chest as he put his mug down. “You’re – you’re still in hostel?”

John went red. “Problem?”

“No, I just… didn’t think. I never went into one. I’m staying in town.”

“Don’t you have family here?” John tried to remember.

“My parents owned a few properties, so they’re mine, now,” James did that thing rich people do where they avoid eye contact as if that’s going to make them less rich. “I’m staying in a flat in Kensington.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“I know, but it’s not that flash.”

“Ha, sounds like it. Well, yeah, I’m in hostel. But I have a few flat viewings lined up.”

“That’s good…” James turned his coffee mug around. “So… what’s the plan for telling Sherlock?”

 

*

 

“This is so stupid,” John hissed in the back of the private car. “So fucking stupid. He’s not even going to answer the door.”

“Well, you can try,” James patted John’s knee, then took his hand away, looking guilty. “I’ll wait here?”

“Have a shock blanket ready,” John sighed, opening the door. “If I’m not back in two hours, ring the police.”

James laughed, but John didn’t. He closed the door, and walked up the street towards the sandwich shop, turning at the last moment to go up the steps to 221b.

He stood in front of the door.

The last time he was here, he’d had the door opened under his hand by Victor.

Victor… he was about to learn some things, if Sherlock hadn’t told him already.

John almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

He rang the bell, and stood back to wait.

He wasn’t standing long.

“Hello?” Victor’s face appeared in the gap between the door and the wall. Then he opened it wider, recognising John. “Oh… hello, again.”

“Hey,” John said, putting his hands in his pockets. “Is – is he in, at all?”

Victor shook his head. “No, but he shouldn’t be too long… he’s been out to see his sister.”

“Eurus?” John blinked, his sister in law’s actions flooding back in a wave of memory. “Oh…”

Victor frowned, but his little smile remained. “You know Eurus?”

“I… knew her,” John said. “A few years ago.”

“Then… you must know Sherry, and Mycroft?”

“I… do.”

Victor put his head on one side, eyes darting over John’s face, searching for recognition. “Have we met before? Before you came with a case, I mean?”

John bit his lip. “No, I… I don’t think so. But…” he took a breath, and tilted his own head to one side.

Victor’s eyes went wide. His gaze locked onto the curved bite on John’s neck. He went pale.

“I’m really sorry,” John said. “I… I didn’t want to –”

Victor held a hand up, and opened the door properly. “I think you should come in. I… I’ve been wondering when this day would come. Expected it sooner, to be honest. I knew the risk, when we met. But…” he blinked the shine from his eyes, “come in. Sherlock won’t be long.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

“So, you’re ‘John’,” Victor led him into the flat. “I… I didn’t know you’d be… back.”

“Did you know I was away?” John stood, looking around the flat, glancing at the wall where Sherlock had shoved him a couple of months ago.

Victor was filling the kettle. “Well, you had to be, didn’t you? You weren’t here. Sherlock never said where you were, but he seemed pretty confident you wouldn’t be back suddenly. Shows he doesn’t know everything, I guess.” He clicked the kettle on. “Do you take sugar?”

“No, thank you…” John didn’t bother worrying about the caffeine in the tea. He could afford one cup.

Victor fished a tissue out of a floral box, and discreetly wiped his eyes before turning around. “So… You’ve come here to… what? You’ve been here before. What do you…” he stopped, and turned to fill the mugs with boiled water. John noticed he’d made three.

“Victor, I haven’t come to try and steal Sherlock,” John said. “I’m just here to talk. To both of you.”

“You didn’t get any talking done the last time you were here, did you?”

_…They kissed hard, less a sensual start to love-making and more a desperate need for physical contact. Sherlock forced John’s jacket zip down, off, over his arms, to the floor, moving to his belt, unbuckling fast, opening John’s jeans-buttons, and his zip, shoving his trousers down over his arse, with his pants, in one movement…_

“No. We… ended up shouting at each other. Sherlock pretty much threw me out, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It doesn’t.” Victor brought John’s mug over, and set it down on the coffee table. They took their seats in the armchairs – John in his old one, Victor in Sherlock’s. “You had sex, didn’t you?”

John’s mouth opened, but no sounds came out.

Victor chewed his lip for a moment before sighing. “Sherlock might be a genius, but he isn’t clever. When I got home that night he’d showered, and cleaned the upstairs bedroom. He never cleans, and he showers to a bloody schedule.”

“Did you say anything?”

“No. What would have been the point?” Victor sipped his tea. “He’d never done it before, and you were an omega. Omegas do that sort of thing, don’t they?”

_"What – did he force you?”_

_“N-no.”_

_“Then you’re a slut already.”_

John tensed, but didn’t argue.

Victor shrugged. “… in my eyes, it could have been worse. I was prepared to overlook it.”

“Victor –”

“When you came into the pharmacy, I almost confronted you,” Victor said, glancing up at John. “But I decided not to antagonise the issue. Things between me and Sherlock were fine. He was away at work, and I was just unlucky to see you. That’s all.” He put his mug down. “So… why come back now?”

John rubbed the back of his head. “Actually, it’s… kind of about that time… that week… that I need to speak to you both.”

“That… that week?” Victor blinked. John could almost see the cogs grinding away in his head.

“Yes.” John steeled himself, and sat up. “Victor – the week Sherlock was away with work –”

“John?!”

John looked around as Victor looked up.

Sherlock stood in the doorway. His coat was open, scarf loose around his neck, a pink paper giftbag in his hand, mouth and eyes wide in shock at the sight of John and Victor drinking tea in his lounge.

John’s heart swelled, his chest aching as he caught sight of his mate. His hands clenched on the chair arms as he fought to urge to cross the room and go over to Sherlock, to wrap his arms around him, scent his neck, kiss his skin.

Sherlock’s hands also clenched as he looked at John, and the tendons in his neck went taut. Stress.

 _This is all your chickens coming home to roost_ , John thought, bitterly.

Victor spoke first. “Sherlock, thanks for joining us… John was just about to tell me what you were doing the week you were apparently away on a case.” He raised his eyebrows accusingly.

Sherlock looked at John in horror.

John pulled a _you had this coming_ face.

“Well?” Victor folded his arms.

Sherlock coughed, and went scarlet for a second. “Victor, I… I never meant to –”

“To let me find out?” the beta finished, his voice cracking.

John looked at the table to try and avoid the awful feelings in the air. His instincts were to defend Sherlock from this verbal onslaught, but at the same time he was pretty sure Sherlock was answerable to this.

“I never meant for this to _happen_ ,” Sherlock hissed. He glared at John as if he was solely to blame. “This…” he wrenched off his scarf and coat as he spoke, “this is not what I wanted, alright?”

“In Sherlock’s defence, I did ask Mycroft to tell him to come and help me,” John had to offer up.

“Help you?” Victor frowned. “Oh, so you _were_ spending your week away fucking this man, Sherlock?”

“I’m his mate,” John interjected, without thinking.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Sherlock started pacing. “John was… he would have…”

“I was in heat, and I would have died if he hadn’t come over,” John said to the carpet. “He wasn’t over for me… he was saving me. It wasn’t… anything.”

Victor made a spluttering noise. “You expect me to believe that? He’s your mate. You’re bonded. Of course you wanted him. And after you had sex in our flat two days before?”

Sherlock froze, caught.

John had to scratch his arms, the urge to stand up and hug Sherlock was almost overwhelming. His bond bite was throbbing, and his stomach was rolling like the inside of a washing machine.

“Victor,” he said, “that isn’t the issue –”

Victor shook his head. “John… I think you should go, now.”

“I can’t,” John said.

“Why?”

“I didn’t come over just to dob Sherlock in,” John said, getting to his feet. “That was going to happen anyway, but that’s not why I’m here.”

Sherlock leaned against the desk, and crossed his arms. “Then why _are_ you here? Aside from wanting to drag me so effectively through the dirt?”

“You did that to yourself,” John snapped.

“I didn’t have a choice – what – should I have just left you to die?”

“No, and Christ, I’m glad you didn’t. I’d never say I regret that – I’m not an idiot. Just let me say what I need to say!”

Victor groaned. “Can you just spit it out, please? So I can scream at Sherlock in private?”

“Fine,” John snapped. His heart was hammering, he was sweating hard, and he was about to ruin at least two lives, possibly four.

“Well?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock… Sherlock, I’m… pregnant.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Victor pressed a hand to his mouth. His eyes were shining with fresh tears.

Sherlock hadn’t moved. He hadn’t reacted in any way except to freeze.

John sighed. “I just came to tell you. Obviously it’s yours, Sherlock. Obviously. You – you don’t have to like it, or do anything about it, or anything… at all.”

“Are you sure you’re..?” Victor sniffed, looking at John’s flat stomach.

“I’ve been to the doctor. Seven weeks,” John said. “Not showing, yet. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Victor mocked.

“Yes, I am,” John said. “I honestly am.”

Victor looked away.

Sherlock still wasn’t moving. John wasn’t 100% sure he was breathing.

“Sherlock… It’s up to you what you do with this –”

“How in God’s name is it up to him?” Victor snapped. “You – you could have taken…” his face dropped in realisation. “Oh god. That day at work. You came in for the morning-after pill. But you didn’t ask for it.”

“I thought you’d suspect,” John groaned. “I… It was stupid, but seeing you kind of made me realise that Sherlock was happy with you. That he wasn’t mine. And I was happy for you both. Genuinely.”

“But you still wanted to have his baby?”

“Yes.” John folded his arms. “Yes, I did. But that doesn’t mean he has to drop everything and –”

Victor held a hand up. “John… You…”

“I’m being serious. I know that me coming here isn’t helping. But the last thing I wanted was for Sherlock or you to see me eight months in and then realise. I… I’m not here for Sherlock. I’m here to tell you both I’m expecting. That’s it. I don’t expect anything else.” John looked at Sherlock, who still wasn’t moving. “Are – are you going to react, at all, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t even blink.

“Ok, fine,” John zipped his jacket up. “You can get in touch if you want to know anything, or you can just sit staring into space, it’s entirely up to you. Victor… I’m really sorry.”

“Please leave,” Victor said in reply. "Just... get out of this flat. Now."

John nodded, and headed for the stairs.

 

*

 

“That was quick,” James said as John got in. “How…”

“Awful,” John said. “He didn’t even speak to me. He looked like he wanted to murder me, though.”

“Jesus…” James’ fingers flexed.

John leaned back against the leather seat. “I wish I could drink. I really need a drink, right now.”

James smiled sadly. “There’s a smoothie bar I know that isn’t too far.”

“Squashed fruit seems like the perfect way to follow up ruining someone’s relationship,” John sighed. “Let’s do it.”

“Drive on,” James called through the hatch, and his driver set off.


	10. Chapter 10

John lasted until he had a bright green smoothie in front of him before cracking.

He blanked out whatever it was James was saying, and crumpled like a wet paper bag. He brought his hands up to his face, and keened softly into his palms, counting on the hubbub of the café to hide the little sounds. He screwed up his face tight, letting shakes take hold of his body.

Some of it was instinctual – he’d been close to his mate, but not touched. But most of it was emotional.

John didn’t know how he’d expected Sherlock to react – but he had expected him to _react_. Not stare into space as though the air was full of white noise, and he wasn’t a father, and it was just some news not worth listening to. He hadn’t spoken. Why hadn’t he said _anything_?

“John…” a hand touched his arm, patting it nervously. “John, mate, do you need to go outside?”

John took a great sniff of air as he dropped his hands. “I’m ok…”

“Yeah, you look it,” James rolled his eyes. “Seriously, do you want to go?”

“No, just… give me a minute.”

They sat in silence as John wrestled with the clench around his chest, his heart, and tried not to let the drawing feeling pick him up from his chair and make him run across London back to his mate. He knew, even now, that his bond was Sherlock was strong – as strong as it could be, bar the moment of the bite. They were connected by soul, by blood, and by the cluster of cells growing in John’s womb.

Any hope he had of their bond dissolving and breaking would take years to come to fruition.

If he had any hope of that at all.

And he knew he did not.

“Went that bad, huh?” James said, sympathy in his eyes.

“He… he never even reacted,” John forced out. “He just stared. Like… like he couldn’t even see me.”

“Was he in shock?”

“How much of a shock could it be? He knew there was a chance, surely?”

“Well, when you – bonded… you took a pill, didn’t you? Maybe it made sense to him tat you’d do it again, if that’s your history?”

“Christ, that’s Sherlock in a nutshell,” John wiped at his eyes. “One previous action determines all future responses. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. Or as other people think he is.”

James hummed, stirring his strawberry drink with the straw. “If he had any brains in his head, he’d’ve swept you up in his arms. You did nothing but try to contact him.”

“I also left him,” John sighed.

“He knew you were going to leave.”

John dragged a hand over his face. “The more I think about it, I don’t think he actually believed I would. Or… me leaving hurt him more than it hurt me. And it hurt me a lot. I used to… wake up crying in my bunk, because my mate wasn’t close. I used to get the shakes, and couldn’t eat, because I was alone, and I shouldn’t be. I got over it, but it took months, years. Maybe Sherlock couldn’t get over it. Maybe he doesn’t know how to cope with being alone. Is that what bonds are like, for alphas?”

“Not that I know of, but then I’m not bonded. I always thoughts bonds were harsher on omegas…” James sipped his drink. “Maybe we’ve been lied to, all these years.”

“Or maybe, no omega has ever left quite like I did,” John reasoned. He looked away, and resisted the urge to touch his abdomen. There was nothing to feel. But it was part of Sherlock, and John was itching to be close to him. It was like feeling two emotions, or more, at once. John was angry, and sorry, and upset, and anxious, and righteous and other things he didn’t have names for.

Mostly, he just wanted to sleep for the next thirty-three weeks.

A shadow fell across the table, interrupting his thoughts.

“Doctor Watson?”

John looked up, feeling all the blood in his face drain down to his stomach, where it turned into a stone. “Oh. Afternoon, Mycroft.”

Mycroft was visibly vibrating with emotion. His eyes were bright, and the grip on his umbrella so tight he looked in danger of snapping the handle clean off. The scent of alpha dominance radiated off him, making John duck his head in horror, avoiding his brother in law’s eyes as James’ defences immediately jumped up, and he glared at the interrupting visitor.

“I beg your pardon, but who the fuck are you?” he snapped.

Mycroft let out a low snarl. “Sherlock is my brother. And who might you be?”

“John’s friend,” James snapped, the slur to his speech more obvious now he was on edge. He looked Mycroft in the face, showing no shame about his scarred skin. “What do you want?”

Mycroft ignored him, and looked back at John. “I told you not to go over, and you didn’t listen. And now look. Just… look at you!”

“Thanks, Uncle Mycroft,” John said, bitterly.

Mycroft went purple. “That’s… What in God’s name were you _thinking_?”

“Sherlock tell you, did he?”

“… he –”

“Or were you spying on him?” John narrowed his eyes. “Come on. I know you’ve had a leap up on your career ladder since I left. You knew where you find me. You still work for _The British Government_?”

James shot John a look.

Mycroft adjusted his grip, apparently to gather himself. “Might I ask what your plans are for this… event?”

“You mean me being pregnant with your brother’s baby?” John raised his eyebrows.

Mycroft’s lips went thin.

John sighed. “I’ve told him he can be as involved as he wants. I mean it. If he never wants to see me, or it, again, that’s his decision. I can’t force him to do anything, can I?”

Mycroft stared. “You’re serious?”

“I have to be,” John said. “He’s with someone else. It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s not my choice. I’ve chosen to have a baby. No one else has to get involved.”

James looked away. Mycroft glanced at him, then back to John, his rage apparently dissipating.

“You’re not doing this to… trap Sherlock?”

“No. And I’m insulted you think so.”

There was a pause. Then Mycroft let out a sigh, looking at the ceiling. “This… is what you’ve chosen for yourself, is it?”

“Yes.” John watched him. “You don’t want me to be with him, do you?”

Mycroft looked back, quickly. “It isn’t that simple.”

“Why don’t you want me to be with him, Mycroft?”

James cleared his throat. “I’m just going to…” he didn’t bother finishing his sentence, and indicated his empty chair to Mycroft before going outside.

Mycroft took it, and rubbed his chin before answering John. “John, when you left… I don’t for one minute pretend to know how a bond feels, or how it feels when your mate leaves, but Sherlock… I have never seen him quite like it.”

John didn’t ask. He waited.

“He was ill, for the first day or so – violently sick, temperature, hallucinating, desperate to find you. He scented all over the flat, tried to follow your scent outside, though the rain had long since washed it away.”

“He was awake,” John couldn’t help saying, “when I left. I saw him.”

“He thought he could cope,” Mycroft said. “He was wrong. He ended up staying with me for a few weeks, to try and get away from your scent, in the flat at Baker Street.”

“Why didn’t he answer my calls?” John asked.

“Because in his delirium, he broke his phone,” Mycroft sighed. “Smashed up half the flat in a rage, not just the handset, if you must know. We got him a new one, but by that point he was refusing to turn it on, to do anything but lie on his bed, or the floor, occasionally twitching in what I can only describe as grief. He was mourning you, John. Mourning the loss of his mate, and potential child.”

John glanced down at himself.

“Regardless… he refused to attend therapy, though he was doubtless deep in depression. His attempts to get back to Baker Street were hampered by the fact your scent and belongings were still there. We had to organise a deep-clean, and in that time, Sherlock found… other distractions.”

“Cases?” John asked.

The look on Mycroft’s face said it all.

“Oh… my god.”

“Indeed. My brother is well-practiced at hiding what he does not wish me to know. And by the time his… habits… became known to me, he was almost unreachable. That was when he… left.”

“Left?” John tensed.

Mycroft nodded. “To this day, he won’t say precisely where he ended up. It's possible he doesn't remember. We thought, initially, he might try to find you. We watched your deployment records, and the airports in the countries you were staying. Sherlock never turned up at any of them. He certainly left the country at one point, and was spotted by an agent in Ukraine, but that was all we saw of him.” Mycroft steepled his fingers. “As far as I can gather, he was on a drug-fuelled tour of Europe.”

John sat back, not know what to say.

This was how Sherlock had felt, then. At the new of John’s pregnancy. Numb. Shocked. Empty.

There was nothing to say, or do, to change the situation, so it made sense to say and do nothing at all.

Mycroft gave him a minute, before continuing.

“We found him, eventually. Three years after you left. He was brought into a South London police station. It was as though he’d been trying to make his way home. I took him the rest of the way. Well… there was a stop-off, first,” he added.

“Rehab,” John said.

“Indeed. And it was not a brief stay. Sherlock needed psychological help, as well as physically dealing with his addictions. He was malnourished, had hepatitis, and was lucky to not have worse. He took… some convincing, to stay.”

“He escaped, I guess?”

“Several times. He simply had no urge to try and get well. When he wasn’t deducing the staff and patients (and often suffering for it, once he’d suitably insulted them), he was trying to trade medications with other people, or seeking inappropriate company.”

John chose not to think about that.

“Until Victor came to the clinic.”

John looked up.

Mycroft gave a single nod. “I always had reservations about Mr Trevor. A beta addicted to heroin, a history of failing to attend rehabilitation courses to their end, though, like Sherlock, a promising student, and rather clever. I dreaded the thought of them together. They would either kill one another, or…”

“Or love one another,” John said, his heart sinking.

“Sherlock resisted,” Mycroft said. “He was still, I have to tell you, extremely loyal to you. He broke off his budding friendship with Mr Trevor, several times. Until… he no longer did.”

“Victor wore him down?”

“I think he saw value in him,” Mycroft said gently. “Victor made Sherlock not think about drugs. Made him not think about you. He was a kind man, and he understood Sherlock’s struggle with addiction. They suited one another.”

John had to stand up, and walk away. He went over to the cake display, and stood for a moment, trying not to scream.

The urge passed, and he went back to Mycroft, who looked sorry.

“So…” John took a deep breath, “why don’t you want him to be with me? You didn’t answer my question.”

“True,” Mycroft smiled gently. “But the answer required the story. John… you’re Sherlock’s first love. His mate. I don’t doubt for a second that he still loves you, on some level he has locked the door to. But your leaving drove him to a state I have no wish to see him in again. I cannot allow that to happen again.”

“You think I’ll break his heart… again?” John asked, his throat on fire, his chest in a vice. “He… he broke mine! The letters –”

“Mrs Hudson sent them back, because Sherlock was gone,” Mycroft said. “When he returned… I continued the practice. I had no wish for him to go back to you.”

“You bastard,” John seethed. “You… you utter bastard. Why… why didn’t you give him them when you found him? He could have gotten in touch then!”

“Because I wanted my brother to be better, not better in the hope you’d come back,” Mycroft said. “There was never any promise of you coming back at all. And then, as if to prove me right, you were shot. You could have been killed. It would have killed him, too.”

“You…” John stood, again. “Get out, Mycroft. Just… get out. Your family has ruined my entire fucking life. Your daddy _bought_ me, when I was ten years old. Your sister told me I was nothing but a walking uterus. You held my letters from Sherlock. Sherlock… he left me with your dad, and you both knew what he was planning to do to me. You have no idea, Mycroft. None at all. Did you know I still feel Siger Holmes' hands on me? When I sleep, I feel his disgusting weight pressing against me. I feel his breath on my neck. And you think Sherlock is the only one who has had trauma to recover from?”

“I never said that.”

“You implied as much. I love your brother, Mycroft. He’s my mate. He made me happy, back when I had nothing. And he’s chosen someone else, thanks to you. He hates omegas, now. You can see it in his face. He hates me, because of what I am. If you’ve told him that, you’re just as bad as your father.”

Mycroft stood, taller, but John didn’t back down. “You think I’m the only person who made Sherlock the way he is today? Made him think so much like the father we despise?”

“Who else is there?” John almost laughed hysterically. “Who else has been whispering in his ear all these years?”

Mycroft stared. “You disappoint me, John.” He picked his umbrella up. “Your child is, of course, legally a Holmes –”

“Watson.”

“- and is therefore entitled to several funds,” Mycroft quipped. “If you need any money –”

“I have a job, thank you,” John sniffed.

“Very well.”

James came back in, the shop bell ringing as he pushed the door open. “You alright, John?”

“Fine.”

“I was just leaving,” Mycroft nodded at James, and looked back at John. “Stay in touch, won’t you?”

“I’m sure you’ll seek me out,” John snapped.

“Quite. Good day.”

James gave Mycroft a good glare before shutting the door behind him, and going back to John.

“You ok?” He leaned in to scent, then stopped.

John nodded, pretending not to have noticed. “He told me what happened to Sherlock.”

James blinked. “And how do you feel about it?”

“Pretty shit. But it makes sense. I hate that it makes sense. Except for one part…”

“Which part?”

“Sherlock dislikes omegas, now,” John said. “He never used to. But now… he resents the fact I am one, because it keeps us bonded. I can see it. But Mycroft says he wouldn’t tell him that. Who else is there?”

“That Victor?”

“Maybe…” John considered, remembering the beta man’s words…

 _Omegas do that sort of thing, don’t they_?

“It must be,” John said. “There isn’t anyone else who’d think that way about omegas. No one else would think they’re all slu-” He stopped, his mouth dropping open, as something dropped into place. “Oh.”

“John? What is it?”

John swallowed. “Eurus.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone enough for all their support with this fic, but a special shoutout to: missmuffin221, Southern_Fried_Penguin, Kyra, Fangirl_says, Rosie Paw, and 1butterfly_grl1 for all your support during this fic, and ones that have come before. Honestly, you guys make it worth getting out of bed.

Despite James’ insistence that John should stay with him ‘at least for a few days’, John went back to his hostel, and for once relished in the quiet and the emptiness. It gave him the space he needed to try and think. John lay on his bed, his hands splayed over his stomach, letting his mind work.

If his theory was correct, and Eurus had been whispering things to Sherlock, it would take more than a simple declaration of _I’m not like other omegas_ to try and get him to see otherwise. Eurus’ words to John, as a child, had stayed with him for years. It was as though, once she spoke, her words burned onto your mind.

It was almost supernatural.

Of course, John had no way of knowing whether or not this was true. He filed the idea away, for the time being, and resolved to go back to it later, when he had more to go on than a hunch and a sense of dread.

Sherlock, of course, was another matter. He’d been shocked, but surely he must have suspected… No. He wouldn’t have thought John would want… this. By his blank reaction, he’d retreated into his own head for a good scream. John could understand that.

He sighed, and passed a hand over his face.

He wondered if Victor and Sherlock were fighting, or broken up, or deciding they’d give things another try.

A painful snake of jealous longing coiled around John’s insides, and squeezed. He let it, let the feeling soak into him, trying to make peace with it.

Whether it was his pregnancy, or the labours of the day, John didn’t know, but he was suddenly exhausted. He pulled the duvet over himself, not bothering to undress as he wrapped his arms around his chest, hunching, the way he used to in the army, rocking himself into warmth and sleep, and pretending he was not alone.

 

*

 

A week later, and John was midway through a shift at the GP. He’d been for another interview with the officer at the Armed Forces Aid Centre, and had, thankfully, come away with a cheque for his compensation claim. It wasn’t enough to buy anywhere in London, or even put a down-payment, but it would buy baby things, and pay rent whilst John was on maternity leave. It was a welcome boost to his wages that meant he slept much easier the night after, not realising how worried he had been about it all. The only real concern now was that he had a date for moving out of the hostel. It simply wasn’t usual, he was told, for stays to extend this far. John doubted this was true. He was the only omega in the entire building. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they were trying to pass him onto someone else before it got out the Army was sheltering a pregnant omega separated from his mate.

He decided not to ask, in case he punched the person who delivered the answer.

“Next patient, please,” he called into the intercom, releasing the button with a click. He pushed his chair back a bit to greet the person, then sat up in shock and fright.

“Good afternoon…” Sherlock closed the door behind him. “Don’t worry, I did make an appointment, I’m not pushing in.”

John gawped, then glanced at his screen, where ‘W. S. S. HOLMES’ medical history popped up like a delightful red flag. He looked back at Sherlock. “I take it this isn’t to discuss your health, Sherlock?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Sherlock took the spare seat. “I… I was unsure you’d speak to me if I didn’t make the effort to contact you.”

“Mycroft has my number,” John pointed out. “You know where I live. This isn’t… appropriate.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No, you might as well stay, now you’re here,” John rolled his eyes. “So… how can I help you?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers, the way he always used to, and John’s inner omega wailed in need to touch those hands. “I… came to apologise.”

“Oh…”

“For my behaviour, last week,” Sherlock clarified. “I… I should have said something. It’s just…. I wasn’t expecting…”

“It’s alright, I understand,” John said, softly. “I guess I should apologise for blurting all of that in front of… other people.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No apology necessary…” he pressed his lips tight together, and John wondered if Victor had thrown the fit to end all fits at Sherlock’s behaviour. He half hoped so. But half hated the idea that he was the cause.

Sherlock clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “So… is there anything I should… know? About…” he looked at John’s stomach.

John had to smile. “Er, no. I don’t think so. I’ve got a scan in four weeks. Throwing up only in the mornings, now…” He smiled wider at Sherlock’s suddenly worried expression. “Don’t panic, it’s only morning sickness.”

“I see…” Sherlock sat up a bit. “And… your scan is to…”

“To measure the baby, and check it’s healthy, and I’m healthy,” John said, feeling like he was explaining to a child. Had Sherlock ever paid attention in human biology? “Um… if you wanted to come…”

“Do I have to?”

John’s happy mood evaporated. “No,” he said.

“Not that I wouldn’t like to… see…” Sherlock said quickly, “but, should a case come up –”

“Yeah, I get it, you’ve got your priorities,” John looked at the computer screen, which told him they had five minutes before John had to get rid of his ‘patient’.

Sherlock stared. “I’ve upset you.”

“Well deduced,” John snapped. Then sighed. “Did you come to say anything else?”

Sherlock’s tongue flicked out, wetting his lips quickly, and John hated himself for noticing. “Victor and I… have agreed to both support you in your pregnancy.”

“I see.”

“He was… very upset, understandably, with my behaviour over the past few weeks. I can’t blame anyone but myself, but…” he looked John in the eye, “I don’t regret coming over for your heat.”

John gave him a tiny smile. “Always nice to know someone doesn’t regret saving your life.”

Sherlock blinked, as if he didn’t understand. “Oh… yes.”

The computer beeped.

John clicked his mouse, shutting it up.

“Am I dismissed?” Sherlock asked, sadly.

“If… you want to be,” John said. “I… Look, it feels unfair of me to know this, without you knowing, so… Mycroft told me. What you did, after I left.”

Sherlock’s eyes went dark. “What did he tell you?”

“About your depression,” John said. “And drug use.”

The alpha’s nostrils flared, and he cracked one of his knuckles before seeming to control himself. “I suppose you are angry about it?”

“Angry?” John blinked. “Not in the slightest. I… I’m upset for you. You’re my mate, and hearing you went through that…” he stopped, and tried to find the right words, “I wanted to go back in time, and scoop you up, and take care of you. I…” he took a deep breath, and reached across his desk, touching one of Sherlock’s hands. “I had no idea. And I’m sorry.”

Sherlock looked down at their connected hands. “You’re sorry?”

“I had no idea how much me leaving would hurt you.”

Sherlock raised his head, and at the same time splayed his fingers so John’s fell between them. “I had no idea how much letting you go would hurt me.”

John’s mouth fell open a little. “So, you were awake.”

“Yes. I thought… I thought if I could let you go, then we might be able to be together, if from a distance… I miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated?”

“How much I love you.”

John didn’t miss the present tense, and his chest went tight. “Sherlock… Did you read the letters?”

He nodded. “I started, but I found it difficult to continue past the first few. They were… painful.”

John bit his lip. “I wrote every week, Sherlock. Every week.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I…” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, fighting off the urge to sob. “Sherlock, I…”

They stood at the same time, shoving their chairs out of the way as they crashed together, noses seeking necks, hands grasping at clothing, tongues flicking over skin and John was dying, he was on fire, this was what he needed, what he didn’t need, what he craved deep down to his bones.

“John…” Sherlock pushed him back gently. “John, I…”

John swallowed hard. “You don’t want this, do you?”

“I want…” Sherlock looked him over, as if searching for a solution written on John’s clothes.

“You could leave him,” John said softly.

Sherlock blinked, and let go of John’s arms. “Is that what that was? To try and get me to –”

“Sherlock, stop,” John demanded. “Listen to yourself. That’s not you talking. You know you can’t be with us both. That’s not how hearts work. You chose him, when I wasn’t around for you, and that’s something I’ve got to make peace with. You weren’t a nun. That’s fine. But this… _suspicion_ you have of me, that’s not you. Why do you think I’m out to trick you, all the time?”

“Well, you are standing there with my baby growing in you,” Sherlock pointed out. “Mated but separated, your mate in a new relationship, why wouldn’t you try to –”

“Sherlock Holmes, if you’re going to choose me, I want it to be just that – you _choosing_ me, not resigning yourself to being with me, or getting tricked into being with me,” John snapped, eyes flashing. “I grew up living in fear that all you wanted me for was because I was an omega. It’s a horrible way to think of the person you’re falling in love with. I don’t want you to think that of me. I want you to want me because I’m John. Not because I’m the mother of your baby. And if you don’t, then go back to Victor.”

Sherlock stared, as if he’d been slapped. “You thought I only wanted you because you were an omega? John – I left you when you started your heats. I never pressured you…”

“I know, and I loved you for it,” John sighed. “But why can’t you think like that, now? I’m not trying to get hold of you because you’re my alpha, or any alpha. Sherlock, I miss you so much it’s like grieving every time I think of you. I miss the Sherlock I left behind – the one who tried to help me. The one who let me go, go to live my dreams. What’s become of you? Who’s been whispering in your ear?”

Sherlock flinched, and John knew he was on the right tracks.

“John. I’m not the same –”

“Doctor Watson, is everything alright? You’ve not pressed the intercom in ages…” Sarah walked in, and smelled the tension. Her beta instinct was to freeze, and look anywhere at the two men.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders back, and seemed to take a grip on himself. “Thank you, John. I’ll… be in touch. Oh,” he drew a small envelope out of his pocket. “That’s not strictly for you,” he said. “But you can open it.” He tapped it, and put it on John’s desk.

John nodded, and looked away as Sherlock walked out.

Sarah cleared her throat. “Do you need a minute?”

“Yeah, sorry,” John sighed.

“I’ll take a few of yours, come back on when you’re ready.” She closed the door behind her.

John sank into his chair, and put his head in his hands. Stress couldn’t be good for him, right now. After sixty calm breaths, he picked up the small envelope, and undid it.

A gift card, and a note slid out.

John looked at the note, first.

 

_John,_

_Please regard this as the smallest of peace offerings. If we cannot reconcile as mates, let us at least work together as parents._

_SH_

 

John looked at the gift card. £250, for a popular baby store.

He dropped everything onto his desk, and sobbed.


	12. Chapter 12

The day before John’s ultrasound, he was finally moving into a new place.

Well. “New”.

“You don’t have a lot of stuff,” James observed as John shut the boot of the taxi, and paid the driver. “Aren’t there more boxes?”

“I’ve just come out the army, mate,” John shrugged. “I left everything I owned before then at Sherlock’s. I don’t know what he’s done with it all – Mycroft’s probably burned it.”

James’ lips went thin, but he didn’t say anything as he lifted John’s suitcases for him.

“I can do that,” John said, reaching.

“I’m sure you can,” James said, “but you’re a pregnant omega, and more importantly, you’re my guest. Let me carry your bags, at least.”

John smiled. “Fine. I’ll make a brew.”

“That’s the spirit,” James shouldered the door to his large house open, and John carried in the final box, trying not to look too overawed at the fancy townhouse.

Unlike almost all other houses in central London, James’ place in Kensington was still one house, rather than several flats. There were three floors, and a cellar, and John would be staying on the middle floor, with his own bathroom. It hadn’t been John’s first choice to stay with another alpha, but after fruitlessly searching for an affordable flat that would be suitable for a baby to live in, he had to accept James’ repeated offer that he should stay with him.

Just temporarily.

John hunted in the kitchen for tea bags and mugs, clicking the kettle on at the same instant his phone rang.

**Sarah Calling**

“Hello,” he smiled, thinking it was more shift work.

“Hi, John. Are you busy? The police are after a doctor as soon as possible.” She sounded rather clipped.

“Is it an emergency?” John asked. James walked in, and looked concerned.

“No, but they need a declaration of death, and a few opinions.”

“Is it a crime scene?”

“Murder, apparently. I’m at my niece’s Christening, else I’d go myself – I know, in your condition…”

“I can do it,” John said. “What’s the address?” He scribbled it onto a close-to notepad, and hung up, making an apologetic face. “I’ll have to leave you to finish the tea, I’m afraid. Work.”

“No problem,” James nodded. “You need a lift?”

“I’ll grab a cab, work pays for it,” John zipped up his jacket. “See you.”

“Take care,” James said, holding the door open for him, and standing rather rigidly as John squeezed past him and clattered down the steps to the road.

It wasn’t until he was in the cab that John realised James had been holding his breath.

That was… alright. Pregnant omegas were notoriously sweet-smelling, and not just to their mate. There were even perfumes manufactured that claimed to have some of the sweet notes of pregnancy in the mixture.

As John would be living with him, James would eventually get used to the scent, and barely notice it, but alphas on the street would certainly lift their heads in interest as John’s pregnancy progressed. Being pregnant was proof that John was fertile – that he could bear children, that he was a good omega, desirable, a prize.

He shuddered, thinking about flipping his collar up. And it was only going to get warmer as the year went on.

The cab pulled up, and John got out at an unmistakable crime scene – there was yellow police tape all over, and plastic screens shielding whatever it was from onlookers. John pulled his ID over his head on a lanyard, and went to talk to the office guarding the scene.

“Excuse me?”

“On your way, pal,” the beta officer sighed. “Nothing to see, here.”

John held his ID up. “I’m Doctor Watson, I’m here to talk to… whoever’s in charge.”

The policeman checked the ID, then took a photo of it. “Straight through, go to the blue sheeted area, as for Detective Donovan.”

“Thanks,” John ducked under the tape that was held up for him, and walked steadily across the scene as though he did this every day.

A few of a the more sensitive alpha noses turned in his direction as he headed to the correct area, and John was more than thankful he wasn’t showing – he was enough of a spectacle as it was.

“Excuse me,” he said again, as he got to a group of plain-clothes officers. “I’m looking for Detective Donovan?”

A beta woman in a smart suit turned to look at him. “You the doctor?”

“Yes,” John lifted his ID. “I was told you need a few declarations, and –”

“It’s not me that wants you,” she sighed. “Come on.”

John followed her around the back of the largest screen, and stopped at the sight of three dead bodies, strewn over the pavement like rag dolls.

“Sir, the doctor you ordered is here.”

“Ah,” a man with grey hair straightened up from where he’d been kneeling on the floor, and came to face John. “I’m Detective Inspector –”

“Greg Lestrade!” John seized his hand, grinning wildly. “You’ve not changed a bit!”

Greg went white, then yanked John close, into a tight hug. “Fucking hell, I can’t say the same for you…” he inhaled, then pushed John back. “Oh. Changed in more ways than one. Jesus. Look at you. Last time I saw you, you were like this,” he held his little finger up. “Shit. What happened to you? Mycroft said you were off somewhere, getting shot at.”

John pulled a face. “I… got shot.”

Greg’s face fell. “God. So… you’re back in London, now? With…” he glanced down at John’s middle, though there was nothing to see.

John swallowed. “Um… bit of a long story.”

Greg nodded. “Right, well, do your thing, and I’ll make us a coffee. Decaf, though, right?”

“Right,” John almost laughed, taking a pair of rubber gloves, and pulling them on to start his work.

 

*

 

“So… you’re not together, but you’re having a baby together?” Greg stared, his coffee untouched in his hand.

“I know it seems a bit weird,” John said, “but we really are just making the best of a shitty situation.”

“No,” Greg put his paper cup down, finally. “That’s not making the best. Making the best would be him taking care of you, and dropping that boyfriend of his, and –”

“I can’t ask him to do that,” John said. “I’m not going to force him to be with me. If he’s with me, he does it off his own back.”

“But he’s just...” Greg didn’t seem to have the words. “I mean, sorry for getting personal, but you’re out here smelling like you do, and the only alpha I can smell on you isn’t Sherlock. Who is that?”

“Oh, that’ll be James,” John sighed. “Don’t panic, there’s nothing going on, I’m just staying with him until I find somewhere better.”

Greg’s mouth hung open like a drawbridge.

“Oh, don’t get your alpha knickers in a twist,” John rolled his eyes. “It’s unconventional, sure, but… so are you, right? Are you and Mycroft still –”

“Colleagues, yes,” Greg gave him a sharp glance.

John made a sympathetic face. It couldn’t be easy for the detective inspector, or for Mycroft. Alphas who went with other alphas were the lowest of the low – even more reviled that unbonded pregnant omegas. They were ‘wasting’ themselves, and they often had to hide their relationships. It looked as though this one was no different. If it got out that the alpha detective inspector was fucking another alpha, he could lose his position, and maybe even his job.

“So,” Greg changed the subject, “d’you know what you’re having, yet?”

“No, only get my twelve-week scan tomorrow,” John mused. “They can tell you at the twenty-week, if you want to know.”

“Think you’ll want to know?”

“It doesn’t bother me, whichever way,” John said. “If Sherlock wants to know, I’ll go with that.”

“Sherlock’s going with you tomorrow, then?” Greg asked, as casually as he could.

“He’s invited. Whether or not he’ll show up is a different matter.”

Greg hummed.

“Inspector,” an officer called. “They want to know if they can move the bodies, now?”

“Let’s take a last look,” Greg nudged John. “There’s only do much time we can sit here being miserable, right?”

“God, I hope so,” John drained his coffee, and the two of them started walking over to the scene, when a couple of officers ran ahead, clearly trying to stop something.

“Sir, you can’t just –”

“Just tell Lestrade I’m here!”

Oh, no. John knew that condescending tone.

Sherlock brushed several policemen aside, and blustered straight up to an unimpressed detective inspector. “Lestrade, you clearly need to hire some staff with an ounce of competence – these bodies are clearly arranged in such a manner – they have been dragged and placed, not fallen where they are, this is deliberate – it matches the Yeoville case from last month, which could of course mean they are linked, if not the work of the same man, if only your officers would open their eyes and realise the bodies were –”

“We know they were placed,” Greg interrupted.

“What?” Sherlock stopped, hands in mid-air.

“We know. The doctor on call noticed it,” Greg looked deliberately over at John.

Sherlock did a massive double-take, and John folded his arms. “John – what – ”

“Only you would fail to notice a pregnant omega, let alone your pregnant mate,” Greg seethed.

“I’m working,” Sherlock said, as if that was an excuse.

“Nice to see you, too,” John said. “But yes, the bodies were moved, all their limbs at forty-five-degree angles, more or less, so I’ve had them photographed from the rooftops, see if they make out a pattern.”

Sherlock blinked, then smiled warmly. “Nice to see not everyone on this crime scene is an idiot.”

John’s mouth twitched. “Yes, well. Greg, thanks for having me, you can ask for me direct on the FRU, next time.”

“I will do,” Greg went to shake hands, “it’s nice to work with a friendly face, again.”

John took his hand, then thought again, and went in for a hug, feeling Greg tense in surprise before patting him on the back.

“You take care, yeah?” Greg let him go.

“I will,” John smiled, noticing Sherlock’s slightly murderous expression in his peripheral vision. “You too.” He started walking away.

And sure enough, Sherlock was after him in seconds.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, stinking of alpha indignation.

“What was what?”

“You – and – and –”

“It was a hug, Sherlock, not rimming on the asphalt,” John snorted. “You’ve got no right to get jealous.”

“You should be careful,” Sherlock snapped. “Greg might be with…” he glanced about, “someone else, but he’s an unbonded alpha, and you know what sort of effect you’ll have on him.”

“Greg Lestrade is perfectly capable of controlling himself,” John said. “I don’t see him skipping about in jealousy.”

“I am not _skipping about_.”

John raised an eyebrow at the uncontested jealousy. “Besides, what does it matter if I flirt a bit?”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, as if he was biting back a great deal he wanted to say.

“If my mate is with someone else,” John went on, teasing, “maybe I should be, too.”

Sherlock stopped walking, and John’s instincts forced him to stop, too.

They looked at each other, and the teasing tone between them melted into something much closer to sadness, and longing.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. “You don’t have to make me jealous,” he said softly.

John bit his lip, for a second. “I don’t have to, but…” he sighed. “Sherlock… do you have any idea how much I want you to want me?”

Sherlock looked up, his eyes wide. “John…”

“I said before, and I meant it – I’m not going to force you to be with me. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be because of this,” John put a hand to his stomach. “If you don’t…”

“It’s not just a case of wanting.”

“I know, you said it’s about trust, and that goes both ways,” John sighed. “We’ve both fucked up. Drawing a line is what would need to happen, but I don’t know if either of us is ready or willing to pick up the chalk. But you need to understand, Sherlock – I never stopped loving you. I’m not out to trick you, or make you be a dad if you don’t want to be –”

“I want to be,” Sherlock said. “I do want to be… a good father.”

The sorrowful memories of poor childhoods rang out between them, like a wet finger on crystal.

 John glanced at the sky. “Are you coming tomorrow, then? It’s at three.”

“Yes, I’m coming,” Sherlock said. “Shall we share a cab?”

“Seems logical,” John said. “I’m at Maidstone Crescent, Kensington.”

Sherlock frowned. “I thought you were –”

“Moved out. Lodging with a friend,” John shrugged. “Until I find somewhere else.”

Sherlock gave a slow nod, as if realising. John wondered if he was placing the faint alpha scent on John’s clothes.

“Be there about half two, I don’t want to be late,” John said.

“Yes… I’m…” Sherlock took a breath, then a step closer, to he was in John’s space, fingers flexing at his side. John knew why. Sherlock’s instincts were making him want to get close to, and touch, and scent at John’s pregnant stomach. It was just instinct.

That’s all it could be.

“You’re..?” John probed.

“I’m… looking forward to seeing it,” Sherlock said, blushing. “And – and you.”

John’s heart gave an ache. “Me too…” he looked at Sherlock’s hand, longing to take it, to press the palm to his lips, his face, his belly… He tore his eyes away. “See you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

Sherlock could only nod in reply, and John tried not to think about how stricken the alpha man looked as they parted once again.

 


	13. Chapter 13

“Do you need to take anything with you?” James asked, watching John finish off another bottle of water.

“Just a full bladder,” John gasped, a drop of water escaping from the corner of his mouth, and running over his chin, and down his throat.

James’ eyes followed its path, before John wiped it with his sleeve, and James looked back at his empty coffee cup.

“You going out, today, or..?” John tried to cover the awkward silence.

“No,” James said. “Going to stay in, try and get some chores done. Did you want any washing doing?”

John almost said ‘yes’, then thought twice. “Er, no, thanks. Don’t take that the wrong way.”

“No, it’s fine,” James shrugged. “I guess you don’t want your clothes to smell like mine.”

“Well, then I’d smell like you,” John said, his voice low, and neutral.

James’ mouth twitched, just a fraction. “You don’t want that.”

It wasn’t a question. Except it sort of was.

John cleared his throat. “You might end up smelling of me, that’d be embarrassing for you.”

“Well… I already got asked by my GP how far along you were,” James sighed. “He thought you were mine. Your scent is pretty strong, already.”

John bit his lip. “Sholto… level with me, here. Is this going to get too difficult for you? Because… I’m only going to get worse, and I know it’s not easy… and our history…” he blushed.

“God, no – I –” James stood up. “John, I wasn’t trying to frighten you off, jesus. I was just teasing at you. I… I’d never put you out on the streets, you know that, right?” he stood right in front of John, concern radiating off him, making John shy beyond reason, his skin tingle, and a strange sort of wariness creep up the back of his neck. James wasn’t his alpha. He was _an_ alpha, and John’s instincts respected that, but John was pregnant with another alpha’s baby. James was, deep down in John’s lizard brain, a threat. Or, an option.

James’ expression softened. “I frighten you, don’t I?”

“Not me,” John looked up at him. “Fuck no. It’s… the omega bit of me. It’s wary of you. Because you’re…” John gestured at him. “You know.”

“Mm, how can I agree with this without complimenting myself?” James laughed, stepping back, giving John space. “Seriously, John, I… I don’t want you to leave. I like having you here. I like knowing you’re safe.”

John smiled, and opened his mouth to speak, when the doorbell rang.

“What…” he checked his watch. 14:16. “Christ, is that…”

James was already going to the door, which he opened swiftly, just as John skidded into the hall.

Sherlock stood on the doorstep, his expression somewhere between interest and murder as he took in the alpha holding the door open. “Good afternoon… whoever you are.”

“Sherlock,” John spluttered, pushing past James to stand between them. “You’re early. I said half past. You’re never early. I didn’t even tell you which house number, I was going to wait for you on the road.”

“Yes, well, can you blame me for wanting to make sure you’re staying somewhere suitable?” Sherlock’s eyebrows went up.

John glared.

Behind him, James cleared his throat loudly. “You must be Sherlock Holmes,” he said, with great civility, considering the opinions John knew he held about Sherlock, and the fact he’d turned up uninvited on the doorstep.

“I am. And you are?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the other alpha, assessing. John could almost hear his thoughts. _Alpha. Military. Injuries beyond the scars. PTSD. Unemployed. Wealthy._

“Sherlock, this is James Sholto,” John said. “He’s a friend from the army.” _Who I sort of had sex with one time, please don’t read into this I am too pregnant and on edge for this conversation on the doorstep._

“Well, John and I knew each other before our army days,” James said, his eyes glittering as he stared at Sherlock, who was making no effort to disguise his evident interest in Sholto’s scars.

His lip gave a tiny curl, and Sherlock put his shoulders back, raising his chin in an obvious show of his own, unscarred, and handsome face.

John felt a flash of anger on James’ behalf.

It was a low blow in what was a simmering, silent contention for dominance.

“You knew each other before?” Sherlock glanced at John.

“James was at school with me. Before…Before I came to London,” John said, trying to keep his voice a steady warning – warning Sherlock not to tell. Don’t tell.

Do not tell.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. “How wonderful for you to reconnect with old friends, John,” Sherlock smiled, the smile most definitely not reaching his eyes. “You’ve certainly fallen on your feet.”

“Yes, well, at least he had someone willing to take him in,” James snipped.

John tensed, bracing himself for a barrage of abuse from one side or the other.

But none came.

Sherlock flexed his hand, before putting it into his pocket. “Yes. Thank you…”

James inhaled, and seemed to try and gather himself. “Since you’re early… Did you want to come in?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“We can just get there early –”

“I’d love to.” Sherlock and John spoke at the same time, and Sherlock crossed the threshold, bowing his head minutely to acknowledge James’ territory, then leaning in to scent John. “But we do have to be getting going.”

John barely knew what to do, and his instincts forced him to stay still as Sherlock gently inhaled beside his ear, in a gesture you’d happily do to your close friend – not intimate enough for your mate, but enough to make it clear that Sherlock was closer to John than James was. It was a statement.

If James noticed, he didn’t make it obvious. “Let me just grab your coat for you, John.” He went into the kitchen.

John grabbed Sherlock by the shirt front.

“Sherlock, you can’t just do things like that –”

“It’s a perfectly normal social gesture,” Sherlock almost smiled, and John’s stomach swooped. It was sort of fun to be naughty…

“But it’s not what we’ve been doing,” John hissed. “Aside from… those times… we’ve hardly been close… You can't just think you have the right to touch me, and get close to me... And you’re still with Victor!”

Sherlock went red. “Yes, but –”

“You don’t need to out-alpha my roommate, for crying out loud. Keep your ego to yourself,” John let him go. “This is James’ house. And mine, for a while.”

Sherlock nodded. “Forgive me, then.”

“You don’t need to ask for that.”

James brought John’s coat through. “Have a good one, John. Looking forward to seeing the photos.”

“Sure,” John smiled up at him, and felt Sherlock’s low rumble of anger, vibrating through the closeness of their arms. He ignored it. “I’ll be back for dinner, yeah?”

“I’ll make your favourite.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared.

John relished the flash of satisfaction he got from Sherlock’s jealousy. It was so bitter of him, he knew, but he didn’t even care. He wanted Sherlock to feel jealous. He wanted him to want him.

“See you,” John gave James a slap on the arm, and opened the front door, ignoring the crackle of tension behind him.

 

*

 

“I can’t believe you’re living with him,” Sherlock blurted, after half an hour of silence. They were in the ultrasound room, John lying on the bed, hands folded on his stomach, giving the ceiling a good stare.

“What do you care?” John shrugged, the paper beneath him crinkling. “You hardly offered me a place.”

“Did you want me to offer you a place?” Sherlock spluttered.

“No.”

Sherlock huffed.

“Maybe,” John admitted.

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me,” John snorted. “You know full well where I’d rather be living. But your flat is rather full, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s lips went thin. “You expect me to just welcome you back with open arms?”

“No, but I expect you to respect that I have limited options, here,” John sighed. “I’m living with James because he has a big house, and he’s a big guy with plenty of money and kindness going spare. He’s a nice guy. He’s not interested in me like that.”

Sherlock looked as if he would very much like to say something.

John wondered if he knew what had happened between him and James.

He probably knew.

Sherlock knew everything.

But Sherlock was having sex with Victor, so what was the difference?

“The difference is,” John said aloud, “you’re in a relationship with Victor. He loves you, and you probably love him. It’s not a quick thing I can expect you to drop for someone you haven’t seen for six years.”

Sherlock blinked. “Did… I say something?”

“No,” John said to the ceiling. “You didn’t. It’s fine.”

Sherlock frowned, confused.

They were saved by the ultrasound tech, and the midwife coming in.

“Hello, John,” the midwife came over, ignoring Sherlock completely. “How are we doing?”

“Fine, physically,” John said, letting her fix a blood pressure cuff to his arm, and do her thing.

“Any pains? Any bleeding?”

“No…” John watched the ultrasound tech set up her station.

“Ok, well, your blood pressure’s fine, so let’s do this, shall we? Just roll your top up to your chest, and pull your trousers down to your pubic area.

John did so, noting that Sherlock averted his eyes to give his mate some modesty. The midwife tucked blue paper in John’s clothes to protect them from the gel the technician squirted onto John’s still-flat stomach, and rubbed it in using the flat wand.

An image appeared on the screen, and John’s medical eye made out a leg, and an arm, before the technician turned the screen away, and started taking a few measurements.

“We’ll give you a tour in a moment,” the technician smiled, taking photos and measuring John’s baby’s various parts.

John hummed, wondering when he’d be allowed to pee – his bladder was at explosion point.

“Ok…” the technician swivelled the screen back around, showing John and Sherlock a fussy black and grey mass that didn’t look like anything. “Let me just zoom out…”

She pressed a button, and moved the wand, and suddenly the image settled.

John held his breath.

One, two, three, four limbs. A round head, a smooth back, knees…

“Oh, my god,” John swallowed, nearly choking on his unexhaled air.

“Your baby looks great,” the technician said, smiling. “The nasal measurements are all good, and…” she carried on rattling off information, but John couldn’t hear her.

He couldn’t hear anything except his own heart thudding in his ears. The heart that was keeping him alive. Him, and his baby. Though… on the screen… his baby’s heart was beating away, so much faster than his own, fluttering like a little bird’s.

“John?”

He nodded, not really knowing who was speaking.

“…We’ll just give you two a moment.” The image on the screen flickered, and John realised it was being recorded, and then playing the same five second back on a loop, so the technician could leave her seat.

The door to the room closed.

John blinked, and the tears he didn’t know he’d been holding back spilled over, running down his face. “Oh, fucking hell… I'm so cliche, I didn’t want to be one of those bloody omegas who cried…”

“At least you’ve got the excuse of being hormonal,” Sherlock croaked from beside him.

John twisted to see him, and gawped at the sight of Sherlock – alpha Sherlock – wiping his eyes, and red in the face. “Are - are you serious?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock dragged a hand over his face. “It’s natural.”

“Fucking hell,” John looked back at the screen, watching his baby flex its legs, over and over. “Christ. We made that.”

Sherlock sobbed, again, and grabbed hold of John’s hand.

And John let him, squeezing back just as tight. “Sherlock…”

“John…” Sherlock was standing, now, his free hand going to John’s hair, stroking his head, scenting his cheek, and his throat, and John was pulling him close, and they were kissing through tears and snot and lips slipping and crashing over one another.

“Sherlock, please,” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and put it over his stomach, the cold gel making the touch wet and slippery, but warm, and John’s body felt such satisfaction at the touch – his mate’s hand over his pregnancy – that he wanted to burst into tears all over again, electricity running over his skin, and John realised it wasn't just because Sherlock was his mate. It was because he was Sherlock, and he was touching him.

“God –” Sherlock looked down at his hand, then back at John’s face. “John…”

“Sherlock, I can’t keep doing this,” John said, pushing him back a fraction. “I don’t want to keep bumping against you like this. We – we can’t just pretend like this is an option. Every time we're alone we end up being stupid. It waouldn't be stupid if we were together, but it is right now. It's no good to anyone. Not me, or you, or our baby, or even Victor, god damn it. You need to choose, Sherlock. You need to choose. Because I’ve already chosen. And I want you. And honestly?” He stroked down Sherlock’s face with a finger, “I think you want me, too.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, and gave a single nod.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mention of self-harm, and suicidal thoughts.

Once John had been weighed and measured and given instructions on how to stay active as his pregnancy went on, he and Sherlock went to get a coffee in the hospital café.

Well, John had a mint tea, which he mostly ignored in favour of looking at the small print-outs of the ultrasound photos.

They’d requested two sets, so Sherlock could take one home.

That hurt, more than he’d been expecting.

John looked at the two pictures. Both of the baby from the side, one with one of its arms up, as though it was waving.

“I think it’s a boy,” Sherlock said, squinting at his copy.

“You can’t even tell, yet,” John said. “It’s not… cooked enough.”

“Still, statistically –”

“Yes, statistically it’ll be an alpha boy, I know… I actually don’t care what it is, so long as it’s healthy.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed, putting the pictures down. “Yes, that is the most important thing…” he sipped at his coffee.

John put his photos into his wallet. “Sherlock… Do you…” he stopped, unsure how to begin. “I know I said Mycroft spoke to me. About what happened to you. When I was gone. But… Look, just be honest with me, here: Was my leaving really what made you so reluctant to see me, again? Or..?”

Sherlock seemed to consider. “You think I’ve treated you badly.”

“Well… you’ve not exactly been sweetness and light.”

“No, I suppose not…” Sherlock picked up the receipt and started tearing tiny bits from it. “When I came to you… twelve weeks ago… you said _This is just heat_. Do you remember that?”

“I remember saying it,” John said. “I don’t remember meaning it.”

Sherlock’s eyes went dark, for a second. “John… I was brought up to believe that omegas – omega men, especially – are devious. I know, that isn’t always true,” he said, as John opened his mouth to argue, “but that’s what I was told. It took me a lot of time to shake that off, and I had just about managed it when you arrived to live with us. I looked at you, and I didn’t see anything like the sly omegas my father had warned me about. You were meek, and shy, and hurting, and I wanted to comfort you more than I’d ever wanted to do anything in my life. You were going to be mine, and I was happy.”

“Until,” John sighed. “Your rut, and then the whole… business… with your dad…”

“Which I can never apologise enough for,” Sherlock said. His eyes dropped down, staring at a drip of coffee in his saucer. “It isn’t my place to gloss over that, and I never shall. I thought I was protecting you, by doing as he asked and leaving you behind. I never should have let you out of my sight.”

John blushed, the protectiveness in Sherlock’s words stirring something in his omega instincts. His mate wanted to look after him.

“And I did what I thought was right, to look after you,” Sherlock went on. “I didn’t force myself on you in your heat, I took you away from Mycroft when it was clear the two of you wouldn’t be getting over your fight in a hurry. I tried my best.”

“And I left you,” John said, something slotting into place in his brain. “You thought I was proving your dad right.”

“Not immediately,” Sherlock cautioned. “I was… furious, at myself. I have never felt such devastation. I half thought it would have been easier had you died – at least then I would have had closure, so I thought. I considered ending my own life…” he stopped, looking up sharply, the words having slipped out.

John stared in horror, the words churning inside him. “You… what?”

Sherlock’s mouth set into a grim line. “I see Mycroft missed out that part. That’s… why I ended up staying with him. So he could watch me. I didn’t want to do it. Because I knew it might kill you, too.”

John sat back in his chair, his hand going to his belly for comfort.

“There was little to take my mind off all of this,” Sherlock sighed. “Which explains my interest in… other distractions.”

“Drugs.”

“And…” Sherlock looked up, and a frown creased between his eyebrows, two lines carved into his pale skin. “And, I went to see Eurus.”

A sharp jolt ran through John’s stomach, like a knife. “Eurus.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’d gone a long time without seeing her. I thought… perhaps seeing my family might.. help me.”

“But she didn’t?”

“That’s the thing, John – I thought she did. Now… now, I’m not so sure.”

John stared, and then folded his hands together on the table. “Eurus used to talk to me. When I lived in the manor. She told me I was…” he stopped, and puffed out a breath at the ceiling tiles, “She told me I was bad, a bad omega, for refusing your father’s advances. She said I should have let him do what he wanted to me. She… put forward arguments I couldn’t refute. You weren’t there, because you didn’t want me. I should accept the advances, because they were from someone who did.”

Sherlock’s jaw was very tense, and his shredding of the receipt had stopped.

John looked away. “It’s taken a lot of time for me to see what she was doing. Even when Mycroft brought her to yours, that day… she told me I didn’t deserve you. It was like she was undoing months of therapy in just a few words, I can’t explain it.”

Sherlock reached across the table, and put one of his hands over both of John’s.

They sat in silence, for a minute.

“Eurus is our father’s mouthpiece,” Sherlock said softly. “He’s using her beyond the grave. Even though he abused her terribly, she believes what he told her almost religiously. She believes she deserves to be where she is, and she believes it is her own fault for being an omega. Likewise, she believes our relationship was ruined by you.”

John’s hands twitched. “And you believed her.”

“I was an alpha who had lost his mate,” Sherlock said. “I was using drugs, and I was desperate for comfort from kin. I drank her poisonous words like they were water from a spring. On some level, I knew she was wrong. I loved you, and I had willingly let you go, but the more we spoke, and the way the ache in my heart was replaced by cold anger… it happened so gradually that by the time Mycroft realised about my drug habit, the damage was done. I fled.”

“Coward,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. Then, to John’s surprise, he nodded.

“I feel like your family has tried to ruin this so many times it’s a wonder the three of us are here at all,” John pinched between his eyes.

“…three?”

John poked at Sherlock’s copy of the ultrasound photo.

“Oh! Yes… I see. You know… I was unaware of Mycroft’s meddling in your letters. If I’d known about them…”

“Would you have come to find me?” John asked, sadly.

Sherlock stared. “I don’t know, John. I can’t answer that. I can only say I missed you so terribly I had to stop thinking of you or else go mad.”

“I missed you, too,” John sighed. “I’d lie awake at night in physical pain, just trying to live with the memory of you.”

“But you didn’t come back.”

“I was training, Sherlock. You know that. I was training to be a doctor. It’s been my dream, and I’m so lucky to be where I am, with it. I couldn’t just go AWOL. I thought you hated me.”

“How could I hate you?” Sherlock shook his head. “You’re my mate.”

They stared at each other, the years they’d missed hanging between them like a thundercloud, threatening to burst. John’s eyes roamed over Sherlock’s face – that handsome, striking face of pale skin and dark hair and pale eyes that shone like blue-green opals, that clever mouth, a smart-mouth, even. John had missed it. Missed all of him.

“I don’t want to share you,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. “I know.”

“You love Victor, don’t you?”

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded, again. “It’s not the same love –”

“I don’t expect it to be,” John said. “I… I could never expect it to be. On some level, I’m actually glad you found someone to love, as much as it hurts me to say that. I’m glad you weren’t alone.”

“Were you? Alone?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked up.

Ah.

“Almost entirely,” John admitted. “There was… one time.”

“One.”

“One. It felt… wrong.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, his face scowling for an instant as he fought off a snarl. His hands gripped the table, for a moment, then he sat back. “I can hardly feel this way when I’ve behaved the same, if not worse.”

“It’s not a case of better or worse,” John sighed. “I’m not angry you’re with Victor. I just wish you were with me. Like a proper mate. My lover. All of it. I want you, all to myself. I don’t want to share.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “I wish it were possible to sort this out without hurting anyone.”

“I know.”

Sherlock drained his coffee. “I… I will…”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” John said gently. “I just want us. I want to be a proper family. I want to kiss you and love you and – and everything else, not just in claiming, or heat. I miss you being gentle with me. I miss it all. I… I just want you, Sherlock. I love you so fucking much it kills me.”

Sherlock took his hands again. “John… My John… I… I do promise. I will sort this, I swear. I want you… Both of you. I’ll…”

“As much as it hurts to say it, please, god, don’t be unkind to him,” John said. “He loves you. And it’s not his fault I’m back. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like shit.”

“… I know.”

John brought Sherlock’s hand up, and kissed it. “I’d certainly hate to be told you didn’t want to be with me.”

 

*

 

John let himself into the flat, finding a note from James, saying he’d gone to the shops for a few things. He made himself a tea, and sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, looking at the fuzzy photos of his baby.

He put a hand to his stomach, under his t-shirt, feeling the bare skin, wondering when he’d start showing, start feeling the baby moving.

That would be strange.

He wondered if Sherlock would be able to feel it.

Sherlock… He’d kissed John on the cheek, and put a caring hand to his abdomen as they parted, saying goodbye to both of his loves. It had made Joh’s heart sing.

Surely, it was a matter of time before they were back in Baker Street together, turning the spare upstairs room into a nursery, planning their first family holiday, baby-proofing the cupboards…

The front door clicked shut. “John?”

“Kitchen,” John called, not looking around.

“Oh, hey… how’d it go?” James put his shopping bag down on the counter. “You ok? You look a bit… emotional.”

“It’s been an emotional day,” John sighed, moving his hand from himself, feeling the loss. “D’you want to see?” He held a photo out, and James took it.

His casual smile dropped immediately, the scars on the one side dragging down, as though he was melting, until he caught himself, and put the smile back on.

“Looks ok to me,” he handed the photo back, and turned to start putting his shopping away. “What did Sherlock think?”

“He cried, actually,” John said.

James snorted. “Hit home for him, has it? That’s it’s real, not something he has ignore?”

“Yes,” John said carefully, the scent of alpha tension making him wary. “Yes, he gets it, now.”

“He should. Before someone else takes his place,” James shut the fridge door, and got his own mug out for tea. He clicked the kettle on, and turned back to John, who made sure to keep his face impassive.

“Well, next scan’s in eight weeks,” John said. He put the pictures back in his wallet. “I think I’ll turn in, actually.”

“Ok…” James turned back to the kettle, and John left the kitchen silently, going up to his room, and locking the door.

Maybe staying here hadn’t been the best idea, after all.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of past sexual abuse of Eurus and John

John didn’t sleep well. Whether it was the excitement of the day, the mint tea at the hospital, or some other illness, he wasn’t sure. But he woke at 5am, stomach churning, and a familiar urge in his throat.

He threw the covers back and thundered across the hall to the bathroom, clanging the toilet seat up with a second to spare before he dropped to his knees and heaved in front of it.

John’s stomach wasn’t as empty as he thought it was, and he barely caught his breath before a second wave hit him, and he groped for the flush.

A warm hand touched his, and flushed the toilet for him. A second hand touched his shoulder.

“You ok, mate?”

“Uh…” John closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, suddenly feeling cold and shaky. “Thought morning sickness was over…”

“Just catch your breath.” James flushed the loo again, and gave John’s shoulder a squeeze before going to fill a glass with tapwater. “Swill your mouth out.”

John did as he was told, spitting into the bowl twice.

James draped a towel, warm from the radiator, around his shoulders. “How you feeling now?”

“Better. Thanks.” John swished his mouth again, and got up, legs wobbling. James knocked the seat down, and John perched on it, pulling the towel around himself, suddenly aware he was only wearing boxer shorts.

James averted his gaze, and took the glass from him, replacing it with another. “Try and drink something. Fluids, you know?”

“I actually could murder a tea,” John smiled, though James wasn’t looking. “Might as well get up, now. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s fine, I thought we were being burgled, or something,” James glanced at him. “You’re loud when you run.”

“It was run or puke in bed,” John sighed. He sipped the water, and got to his feet. “Thanks for… coming.”

“No problem,” James dropped his gaze again. John wondered if he’d spent the night worrying over his words in the kitchen. John certainly had worried about them. This was more like the James he knew – caring, and polite, and not in his space, non-threatening. Last night must have been a blip – a moment of jealousy caused by having another alpha in his house.

That was all.

“I’ll leave you to get sorted,” James said, opening the bathroom door, and John noticed the room did rather smell of vomit and sleep-yeasty bodies. “I’ll put the kettle on?”

“Please. I’ll have my one cup of caffeinated tea,” John smiled, watching James go, then caught sight of himself in the mirror – dishevelled hair, red blotchy face… there was nothing more like to put an alpha off than bodily functions. He snorted, and went to wash his face, wondering what Sherlock would have thought to all this.

John had to admit, Sherlock would probably be kind. He had been, when John was sick in the past. He ran a hand over his chest, noticing that his nipples had darkened, just a little. His stomach was still flat, but had lost some of the definition it had had twelve weeks ago. And crunches weren’t recommended in the second trimester. John sighed, and poked himself. He was going to miss his washboard stomach. Omegas were expected to be soft and curvy, and John never had been – a lifetime of sports and exercise, along with his genes, had seen to that. At least he could keep his arms and legs in check. He made a mental note to go to the gym after work.

He dressed, and went downstairs, where James had made toast, as well as tea.

“Cheers,” he took a few dry slices, and bit into one, trying not to think about his empty stomach.

“Do you need to see a doctor, or anything?” James looked worried.

“I _am_ a doctor,” John grinned.

“You know what I mean. A… pregnancy doctor.”

“No, it’s just morning sickness. If I still feel bad later, I’ll get Sarah to look at me.”

James nodded, and picked up his own tea. “John… I feel like… last night… I’m sorry, for being a jealous shitbag.”

John blinked. “Ok…”

“It was wrong of me, and I’m sorry,” James repeated. “I just… you know how I feel about Sherlock. And him turning up out of the blue… it got to me, I think.”

John nodded. “You don’t have to like him. It’s ok. I don’t expect you to.”

“…does he know? About… us?”

“No.”

James nodded. “Didn’t think so. It’s not like we were dating, right? Like he is?”

John didn’t flinch at the jibe aimed at his mate. “No. And… I don’t really want to talk about him and Victor, is that’s ok.”

“Sorry. I… I just think he can’t see a good thing when it’s stood in front of him.”

John hummed, and finished off his toast, listening to the low throb of the radio, where James had turned on Radio 4. James started on some cereal, and settled across from John, but not directly, so he wasn’t imposing.

“So… just work, today?”

“I was going to get to the gym, actually,” John shrugged. “I don’t have to get completely soft over the next few months.”

“Ha! Yeah… there’s a reason you passed so well as a beta in the army, and it wasn’t all those scent suppressors.”

John smiled. “You think anyone else knew?”

“Aside from medical staff? Probably not. They never acted like it, and I never heard any gossip. You were just you. It wasn’t like people didn’t fancy you, but you never seemed interested.”

“I wasn’t…” John pushed his plate away. “It’s difficult to explain. It’s like… you know what you can’t work out if you’re hungry or bored? It was like I couldn’t work out if I was horny or lonely. It was probably both.”

A flicker of something twitched on the good side of James’ face. “So… what was that night? Honestly?”

John looked at him. “Loneliness, I think. I… I was tired and alone, and you were there, and I trusted  - still trust – you. Have you ever heard of skin hunger? It’s a desire for touch – people can go mad from it, from lack of touch. It was like being brought back from the brink, in a lot of ways. I know you… wanted more from it. But to me… it was like a massage, or something.”

“Well, massages are nice, and make you feel better,” James said, blushing on his unscarred-side. “I’m sorry –”

“You don’t need to apologise,” John said. “It was… what I needed at the time. I didn’t tell you ‘no’. I wanted that closeness. And honestly I’m glad you were there.” He stood, and picked up his plate. “I might have done something stupid, otherwise.”

 

*

 

Nearly ten days went by, and John’s returned morning sickness waned after a couple of days, letting him sleep properly again, though he was already struggling to sleep on his front, as he preferred – he ended up on his side, sleeping on his bad shoulder and having to get James to rub deep heat or ibuprofen gel into the joint in the mornings. It hurt so badly he didn’t even think about the fact an alpha who wasn’t his mate was touching his bare skin. This went on for a week until John bought a special pillow, and solved the problem, at least for the time being.

He didn’t hear from Sherlock during this time, and John was almost ashamed to admit it was a relief – he didn’t have the mental energy to deal with anything except work and staying alive, right then. He scoffed as he read that you were supposed to feel better and more energetic during your second trimester.

He just wanted to lie down on the floor and sleep.

So when he opened the door to the house and found a beaming Sherrinford Holmes on the doorstep, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Congratulations!” Sherry beamed, thrusting a huge bouquet of flowers into John’s arms, and inviting himself in, along with several fancy-looking bags from shops John’s didn’t recognise the names of.

“Sherry?” John peered through the petals at his brother in law.

“Who else? Hope you don’t mind, Mycroft gave me the address.” He waltzed into the sitting room and deposited the bags on one of the sofas, and himself on the other. “Oh, this is a lovely place. Reeks of alpha, though. How are you getting on?”

John gawped, and put the flowers down, grateful they were in a box. “Fine… Erm… long time no see?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherry waved a hand and took out a pack of cigarettes. “But let’s let bygones be bygones…”

“You can’t smoke in here,” John warned.

Sherry tutted, and put his fags away. “Tea, then? I’ll do a pot. Please tell me he has loose-leaf, this alpha of yours…” he wandered into the kitchen, John following like a lost puppy.

“He’s not my alpha, he’s just a mate. A friend.”

“John, darling, I’m not here to judge your personal life, I’m here to shower you with presents for making me a niece or nephew,” Sherry clicked the kettle on, and then pulled John into a hug, which was actually affectionate and nice, the older omega scenting John’s neck pleasantly, so John happily returned the gesture. “Uh, you’re all muscle,” Sherry let him go. “Is that from the army?”

“And the gym,” John passed over the fancy cups for the tea.

“Uh, I don’t know how you do it.” Sherry faffed about pouring water over the tea, before leaving it in the pot to brew. “So… What’s the latest with you and my little brother?”

John pulled a face. “He’s still with Victor, as far as I know. I haven’t heard from him since we went for the scan.”

“Hardly unusual. He could have left the country and no one would be any the wiser. He’s a prize idiot.”

John made a non-committal noise.

“At least tell me he’s pulling his weight with this happy news?”

“He came with me to the scan,” John said, watching Sherry finally pour the cups out and find a tray and biscuits. “And he’s given me some money…”

“Pish, anyone can do that,” Sherry carried the tray back through to the sitting room, John tailing him again. “I meant emotionally. Has he put the time in?”

“It’s… I don’t know,” John sat down beside the other omega. “I can hardly stand to think about it, to be honest.”

Sherry hummed, and added sugar to his cup. “After all the fuss he made after you left, you’d think he’d be fighting hell and high water to have you back.”

“He loves Victor.”

“So?” Sherry snorted, rather unkindly, John thought. “He’s just a beta. What can he offer him?”

“Love, security, sex…” John rolled his eyes. “And he doesn’t have to feel chained to him because he doesn’t have heats or get pregnant… To be honest, I can see the appeal.”

“You’re his mate. That has to count for something.”

John sighed, and put his cup down. “I don’t know. I… I asked him to… well, I told him he pretty much has to choose between us. Victor and me. Sherlock can be part of the baby’s life, but I don’t want him to think he can half a sort of half-relationship with me. I want all of him or nothing at all. I can’t deal with the uncertainty, it’s stressing me out and I don’t need it, in my condition,” he said, primly.

Sherrinford smiled. “Very true. Not that I’d know.”

John looked at him. “You and your mate…”

“No, never,” Sherry shrugged. “And intentionally so. We only mate during my heats, and that’s it.”

John stared. “Is that even possible?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherry. “My mate detests sexual interaction. My heats are the only times we are physically intimate. And we are lucky I only have them every three months or so. It’s bearable.”

John put his cup down. “So… you don’t…”

“No, we don’t need to be going at it to be in love,” Sherry smiled. “I sought Alfie out at a family gathering after hearing about his… preferences, in terms of sex. That is, he hated the very idea. I had no desire to be used in that way, and I put a proposition over to him. He was agreeable, and we started courting, and it was lucky that we liked one another enough to build a relationship before my heat struck again, and we bonded. Siger was furious, of course.”

“But… you’d still get pregnant?”

“I take an after-heat pill every time,” Sherry shrugged. “I don’t very much care that they mess with my fertility. I have no urge to breed or pass on my genetic makeup. In my opinion, it would be better if the Holmes line dies out completely, but if anyone was going to breed, Sherlock was the safest option,” he looked at John’s stomach. “Sherlock always was the most normal.”

John looked at his hands. “Your dad…”

“Was a monster,” Sherry sniffed. “Of the utmost. His treatment of my sister is something I had to live with for years. At one point I even tried to make him turn his attentions to me, to give her a moment’s rest, but that only earned me a thrashing for being a slut.” He sipped his drink. “Eurus’ resistance – her disgust – was what he craved. And when her mind cracked, and she began to accept him, he saw it as a victory, and she was the prize. I’m only surprised she didn’t get pregnant before. Perhaps she did, and her body rejected it.”

John realised he was shaking. He clenched his fists several times, aware Sherrinford was watching him.

“Sorry,” Sherry said, softly. “It’s too easy for me to speak of. Forgive me.”

“I think keeping it a secret would be worse,” John sighed. “It’s not done Eurus any favours.”

Sherry put down his own cup. “Have you been to see her? Ever?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should. She’d like to see you, I bet. I’d be happy to go with you, should you want to visit. She is going to be an aunt, after all.”

John nodded. “Thanks, Sherry, I’ll think about it.”

“Do. Now, can I see the pictures of your scan?”

The rest of the visit was easier, with John talking about his morning sickness, showing Sherrinford the scan photos, and opening all the gift bags, which contained tiny outfits and shoes and hats and blankets, all from high-end stores that John couldn’t afford to set a foot in. He hugged his brother in law, and thanked him genuinely for all the gifts, promising to keep in touch, and eventually closing the door on Sherrinford, who looked as if a weight had fallen off him by coming to visit.

John had to admit, he felt much the same way.

He went back into the sitting room, and picked up one of the tiny white sleep-suits.

He looked into the long mirror that ran over the mantelpiece, and smiled as he held the outfit to his stomach, folding it slightly into the pose of a baby inside him. The suit suddenly looked rather large, and he grinned at the thought of his belly getting so big with baby, giving the sleep-suit a little stroke of affection.

It was when he raised his eyes to the mirror again that he saw James had come home, unnoticed, and was watching John’s actions with a look of deep longing in his face.


	16. Chapter 16

All of a sudden, it was Christmastime. Or, at least mid-December.

John woke up the day after Sherrinford’s visit to carols on the radio, and the sight of a Santa Claus ringing a bell outside the tube station visible from his window.

He put a hand to his belly. “Next Christmas, you’ll be here… You’ll be… just over six months old. Huh.” He bit his lip as he thought about that. A tiny six-month old, wearing an elf costume, at the dinner table…

The thought vanished into thin air.

At the Christmas table _where_? Here? Sherlock’s?

John shook his head, and went to get dressed. He wasn’t booked in to work, that day, and he was planning on spending the voucher Sherlock had got him. He needed maternity jeans and trousers, a Moses basket, all sorts of things… That was likely more than was on the gift card. He would have to start eating into his compensation money.

Which he had been planning on using for rent, but James was letting him live rent-free… But James…

John suppressed a shudder. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust James. Far from it – as a comrade and a friend, he was invaluable. But there was a glint of alpha possessiveness in his eye, now. John didn’t know whether to fear for himself, or not.

Alphas usually respected the presence of another alpha’s pregnant mate.

But this was prolonged exposure, coupled with the fact that John and James had already had sex – James had, in some ways, already staked a claim on him. John’s body, and his omega instincts, deep in his brain, saw James as an option. As much as John loved Sherlock, James was an undeniable second option.

He needed to get himself out of the area, before either of them did something they would regret. John’s baby was Sherlock’s. James’ alpha instincts didn’t register that. He only saw a pregnant omega he had had sex with. Once John’s baby was born, James would regard it as an intruder. He could, in time, learn to love it as he loved anyone else, but when it was born, the baby would be alien.

John stroked over his belly, again, trying to think. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock, but that wasn’t unusual. He couldn’t afford to wait for him to choose.

He needed to start flat-hunting again, and soon.

 

*

 

John left a note for James, and let himself out the front door.

And nearly fell down the steps in fright as he saw Sherlock coming up them, two coffees in hand.

“Christ,” he caught himself and put a hand to his chest. “Sorry. Head in the… What’re you doing here?”

“Well, I brought you this,” Sherlock held out the cup marked ‘decaf’. “And to tell you… I’m… no longer in a relationship.”

John stared. He took the coffee, and adjusted his coat. “Do… you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock considered, looking at his of cup. “Yes.”

“I was going to get the bus,” John said. “You coming.”

“On the _bus_?”

“Come on, live a little,” John smiled, leading the way to the bus stop.

 

*

 

“I should say, before anything else, that Victor is still living at 221B,” Sherlock said, as they took their seats at the back of the bus.

“Right,” John sipped his cooling drink. “Nowhere else to go?”

“… yes. I… The situation wasn’t exactly handled well, by either of us. There was…”

“A lot of shouting?”

“Quite,” Sherlock nodded. “He… is somewhat convinced you have stolen me. Or tricked me.”

“I can see why he thinks that,” John sighed.

“I made it clear that whilst your pregnancy is a factor in our coming together… I doubt I could have kept away from you forever, even without needing to be with you for your heats.”

John blushed. “Shh, not in public.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock drained his cup, and put in on the floor, steadying it between his shoes. “I… I couldn’t tell him a lot of what I feel, John. Too much of it involves what happened in both our childhoods, and I don’t think Victor ought to be privy to that.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock laced his fingers together, and pulled a _you’re welcome_ face.

John copied Sherlock’s cup-holding technique, and considered his next question. “So… what _did_ you say to him?”

Sherlock looked right at John, and John looked back.

The bus went over a road hump, and John bumped into Sherlock’s arm. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“I told him that I love you. That I want to be with you. And that means I can’t be with him, anymore.”

“And that took you ten days?”

“No, that took a few seconds, but after your scan I had to go to Belgium for a few days for a case,” Sherlock shrugged. “The aftermath of the, er, break-up took several days. And isn’t resolved.”

“Clearly not, if he’s still in the flat,” John rolled his eyes. But leaned against Sherlock, anyway. “So where does this leave us?”

“I believe… it leaves us at the beginning,” Sherlock said.

“The beginning?”

“Well… you said yourself, a line has to be drawn. This… could be where we draw it. Start again. If you wanted.”

John almost laughed. He nodded, smiling. “That sounds… amazing, actually. Let’s try that.” He looked out of the window, for a moment, then turned, and held his hand out. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Doctor John Watson. I’m a former soldier, and omega, and I’m having your baby.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitch, but he deadpan took John’s hand, and shook it. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes. I’m the world’s only consulting detective.”

“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you’re calling yourself?”

“Yes, I invented the term.”

John smiled. “I love you, you idiot.”

“Steady on,” Sherlock said. “We’ve only just met.”

 

*

 

“I can’t stay there much longer,” John said, as he flicked through the racks of jeans to try and find his size.

“Is it just the fact he’s an alpha?” Sherlock frowned as he lifted a blouse up.

“…more or less,” John lied, sighing in frustration at the lack of choice. “And these are all ladies’.”

“Are they?” Sherlock peered at the them. “Oh, yes, I suppose they are.”

John moved to another clothes rack. “And more than the alpha thing… I think he’s getting a bit possessive.”

Sherlock back was up immediately, like flicking a switch. “Why? What has he said? What has he done to you? Has he made you uncomfortable?”

“No, nothing like that… He’s just a bit… Like, Sherry came over yesterday. Brought some presents. I was looking at them, and James was just… The look in his eyes… it was like he was sad. But… longing?”

Sherlock let out a low growl, that sent tingles of pleasure straight to John’s cock, making him blink and look away. “He has no right to look at you, at all.”

“He can’t walk around blindfolded,” John said, finally finding some jeans in his size. “He’s taken me in, but I just… it was never meant to be permanent, and I think I need to move out before things get really awkward.”

“Come back with me,” Sherlock said, instantly.

“Not whilst Victor is there,” John said. “No way.”

Sherlock hummed, and followed John to the changing room. “I’ll give him a date to move out. He’ll be going to his parents’ for Christmas, anyway.”

“Have you met them?” John asked, curious.

“Once,” Sherlock admitted. “They came over to drop off some of his things. I can see why he took up drugs, to be quite honest.”

John laughed, and drew the curtain across to try the jeans on. “I wish you’d met my parents.”

“I did,” Sherlock reminded him. “Once.”

“Once wasn’t enough.” John pulled his old jeans off, and spied something hanging on a hook in the changing room. He grinned, and pulled it off.

“True…” Sherlock said. “Have you spoken to your sister, recently?”

“I phoned her, when I was in hospital,” John puffed, pulling the new trousers up his legs. “She’s back in rehab. And she can’t discharge herself, this time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” John pulled his t-shirt down, and looked at himself in the mirror with a smirk. “Right, I’m coming out.”

“Ok…”

John drew the curtain back, and stood, hands on his hips. “Whatcha think?”

Sherlock’s eyes boggled at the false pregnancy belly John had clipped on around himself. The jeans were pulled up over it, and his t-shirt too, so it looked as though John was smuggling a beach-ball. “John…”

“Does it suit me?” he turned to the side, and gave the false bump a stroke.

Sherlock made a strangled noise, and went very red. “I… John…”

“Do I look cute?”

“Cute?” Sherlock’s voice was strangled. He looked behind him, then put his hands on John’s hips, and pushed him back into the changing room, pulling the curtain across before pulling John into a kiss.

“Mm,” John melted against Sherlock’s hands, humming softly into his alpha’s mouth, pressing against him hard. “God, this stupid pad is in the way –”

“Don’t you dare take it off,” Sherlock snarled, dragging a hand down John’s back, cupping his arse firmly. “Don’t even _think_ about it.”

“Ok…” John gasped, his knees going weak. “Oh… kay…” Sherlock’s kisses were at his throat, now, tiny nips and licks punctuating deep kisses, tasting John’s skin, each touch making John tremble. Sherlock squeezed John’s arse again, his other hand coming around to the fake bump, which was clearly doing a number on the alpha. “God, you realise this isn’t a real one right..?”

“But it will be,” Sherlock breathed, dragging his teeth over John’s neck, down to the curve of his neck, scenting heavily at where his omega smell was strongest.

“Oh fuckkkk,” John breathed, gripping Sherlock’s shirt tight. “Sherlock – Sherlock, this is a public dressing room – someone could pull back the curtain – oh _god_ –” John’s whispers dissolved as Sherlock ground up against him.

“John… John, I want…”

“Public,” John repeated, unable to stop himself jutting up against Sherlock. “Public, Sherlock… We can’t…”

“Uh…” Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders, and pushed him back, so he could no longer reach him. “Sorry, you…” He glanced down at the fake bump. “That should be illegal!”

“Gets you going, does it?”

Sherlock made an incredulous noise, and straightened his jacket, looking down at his obvious erection straining his trousers.

John realised he’d been staring at it for some time. He went red, and brushed at his own, new jeans. “I should… go pay for these, too. Especially now.”

Sherlock covered his mouth as he tried not to laugh. “Yes. Of course.”

John pulled a face at him as he struggled out of the trousers and back into his own. Sherlock looked away, to give him some privacy. “Ok, I’m changed. Do you need a minute?”

“I’ll meet you at the door,” Sherlock glanced back at him. “I’m still a bit…”

“Hard?” John teased.

“Well. Yes.”

“See you at the doors,” John kissed him on the cheek, and let him behind the curtain.

 

*

 

“I can’t wait for that to be real,” Sherlock said, as they walked arm in arm through the high-street. “That was… I can’t describe it.”

“I would never have banked on you finding it sexy,” John admitted. “That was unexpected. I was aiming for you to go _oh, John, you’re so cute_!”

“You _were_ cute,” Sherlock said. “You were… cute, and maternal, and it was… You looked…” he stopped, and swallowed. “You looked so beautiful.”

John blushed, and squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “Thank you. You know, it really won’t be long. That bump was Thirty Weeks, apparently. So, I’ll be even bigger, waddling around like a –”

“Uh, stop,” Sherlock grit his teeth. “God…”

“Hey,” John pulled him close, and kissed him on the chin. “I know we can’t go back to yours, and mine is… not the best idea, but… How about, this weekend, we go somewhere… that isn’t a dressing room?”

Sherlock smiled, his eyes glittering. “You have the best ideas. I’ll arrange it. You’re free all weekend?”

“Friday and Saturday nights,” John nodded. “We can go on a mini-break-date.”

Sherlock stroked over John’s hair. “I love you, John.” He lowered his mouth to John’s ear, and whispered over the shell. “I can’t wait to court you, once more.”

John shivered in delight.

For the first time in forever, he felt that things might just turn out alright.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long-ass chapter.
> 
> Warning for non-consensual touch, some violence.

John opened the fridge for the third time, and sighed.

“Not feeling it?” James asked, looking up from his laptop, at the kitchen table.

“Do you have any Marmite?” John asked, starting to look through the condiments.

“Marmite? No, I don’t like it… There’s peanut butter, jam…” James got up and started checking the cupboards, “some sort of potted meat paste, and honey. No Marmite.”

“Uh,” John groaned, and closed the fridge door. He put a hand to his belly, feeling how in the last day, his stomach muscles had started to give up the fight, and a slight rise lay under his hand, too small to see, but enough to feel.

“I’ll go and get some,” James said suddenly, closing his laptop. “Won’t be long.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s nearly midnight, anyway,” John yawned. “It was just a passing fancy.”

“A passing fancy like you’ve been staring in the fridge for half an hour,” James pulled his coat on. “Don’t worry about it, there’s a Tesco Metro down the road, they’ll have it.”

“You don’t have to –” John started to protest again, but James was already out the door. John sighed, and half sat, half leaned against one of the tall barstools. He _did_ have a craving, that was true, but he didn’t want James nourishing him.

He wanted Sherlock to do it.

They were going away together in the morning, to some country house, and John had no plans whatsoever to leave the room. He wanted room service, desserts, and sex, and he was certain Sherlock would be agreeable to that.

He put some bread in the toaster, and knocked it down, thinking.

All John wanted to do was eat, be with Sherlock, and nest. It was what he craved, more than foodstuffs. He felt dehydrated with being away from Sherlock for even a few days, though they had text every day, and even sent picture messages late last night, when Sherlock asked John what he was up to, and he threw caution to the wind and sent Sherlock a photo of himself in the bath, the bubbles preserving his modesty.

Sherlock’s response had made John’s skin tingle, and blood rush to his pelvis.

The toast popped up, and the door slammed shut as James returned, triumphant, with Marmite.

“They only had these giant jars, so I hope this craving lasts a while,” he smiled, putting it on the counter.

“Thanks for going out,” John gave him a smile. He took the toast out, and cut it into soldiers, plain, no butter. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” James hung his coat up. “I wanted to.”

John didn’t reply, just opened the Marmite, and spooned a liberal dollop in the centre of his plate, before putting the jar away. “James…”

“You’ll have fun, this weekend,” James interrupted, as if desperate to speak. His hands were clenched by his sides, and in the harsh lighting of the kitchen strip-lights, his scars looked like melted wax, dripping down his face. It wasn’t a pleasant image, and John wished he could unthink it, but he couldn’t, not now. “You’ll have fun, with… him. You were really happy when you came back from shopping, the other day.”

“I was,” John said, honestly. “He’s left Victor, the beta he was with… we’re giving things a try. Courting, you know? We… never really did courting, before. Because it was arranged, we knew each other from being kids. We never had… gifts, or anything. I think this is a good idea. It’ll help us reconnect.”

James either winced, or smiled, John couldn’t tell except that his lips tightened. “That… sounds wise. So, it’s all in the open, then? Clean slate?”

John nodded. “Pretty much.”

“So, you told him we fucked after your passing out parade?”

The question drew John up short, and he froze.

James sighed, and looked at the ceiling. “So much for honesty.”

“I will tell him,” John said, “but not whilst I live here. He’ll rip your throat out.”

“I’d like to see him try, the long streak of piss.”

“Turn off your testosterone for one second,” John said, lifting his plate. “Can’t you see I’m trying to avoid a fight? I don’t want either of you at each other.”

“You need to tell him. Otherwise you’re just keeping secrets, and that’s the same as lying.” James folded his arms, then relaxed them, trying, John could see, not to seem threatening. Fourteen weeks ago, John could probably have fought James off, physically. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He was weaker, and vulnerable, with another life inside him. Both of them knew that.

“I am going to tell him,” John repeated. “In my own time. James… I don’t like it when you get like this. Living here was… was meant to be a help. And I’m grateful for it. But you don’t own me. You have zero claim on me – I’m bonded, and I’m romantically involved with my mate, again. We had a one-night thing, and that’s it. I thought you were dealing with it, but maybe not. I think I should look to move out after Christmas.”

James stepped back, his mouth opening in shock. “John, I…”

“I know how you feel about me,” John said, his voice cracking. “I’ve seen you looking. Seen your stares in the mirror, how you clench your fists when you see me in my dressing gown on the sofa. You run out to get things for me, and you’ve put me up rent-free, and I can never thank you enough for it – you saved my skin, honestly. I wish I could say that I wish this baby was yours and that we could make a new bond here together, but that isn’t true. I don’t wish it. I don’t wish we could be together, James. I just don’t see you in that way. I never will.”

James’ face crumpled, in the keenest expression of grief John had ever seen, before he caught himself, and sniffed, trying to save face. “Right. After Christmas, then. I’ll… help you look for somewhere. If you want me to.”

“I’m going to move in with Sherlock,” John said. “We’ve already talked about it.” He put his food down, the urge to eat it long since disappeared. “I’m going to bed. I’ll clean that up, tomorrow.” He walked past James, to the stairs.

“Is it my scars?”

John stopped, hand on the banister. “…what?”

“Is it my scars?” James said again, not turning to look at him. “Before I had them, you… we… but now…”

“No,” John let go of the banister, and came over, touching James on the elbow. “Mate, it’s not that. Honestly. I don’t even see them.” _Lies_. “It’s nothing to do with how you look. My heart’s just not there, you know?”

James nodded, and turned, keeping his face tilted so the ‘good’ side was closest to John, until they were face to face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be –” John’s words were cut off as James bent down and inhaled along his throat.

Years ago, John would have had a breakdown. Might have screamed, been sick, collapsed in fear and horror at the unsolicited touch. He would have let the memories of Siger Holmes’ voice bubble to the surface and take him under, drowning him in the past.

John Watson was no longer that frightened little boy.

He grabbed James by the neck, and slammed him hard into the wall. He cracked the heel of his left hand over the alpha’s scarred temple. Then kicked his legs out from under him. James fell hard, his legs twisting, banging his coccyx and hands painfully.

“You don’t get to fucking touch me,” John snarled, omega defensiveness pouring off him as he bared his teeth. “You do not. You keep your fucking hand and nose to yourself, do you understand me?”

James nodded, tears streaming from both eyes, cradling his left wrist. “J-”

“No,” John pointed a finger. “Fucking no. You don’t get to explain that. You have any idea how much shit I’ve put up with from alphas my entire life? I am not someone’s fucking property – you can’t fucking steal me and expect me to just stand there and like it. I’m my own person, and you do not get to touch me. Not now, and not _ever_.” He was tempted to spit on the alpha, in rage and in a display of marking, but didn’t want any of his scent or DNA on him.

So he marched up the stairs, and bolted his door.

And slept with his gun under his pillow.

 

*

 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, as soon as John dumped his case in the boot of the car, and climbed into the passenger side. “You’re… on edge.”

“Smell that, can you?” John snorted, clicking his seatbelt on.

“Well, yes.”

“I had a fall-out with James,” John said. “I need to move out. Soon as.”

Sherlock’s hands gripped the steering wheel for a moment. “Right. I’ll give Victor an ultimatum. If he has nowhere to go, he’ll have to move back with his parents, is all.”

“He should have gone there, anyway,” John said, rudely. “Why’s he even hanging around? Oh, wait, I know, because he still wants to fuck you.”

“Well, he probably does,” Sherlock said, unwisely. “He was hardly the instigator of the break-up, after all…” he caught John’s eye, and John hoped he looked murderous enough. “Er, but I wouldn’t. We didn’t for… not since…”

“I don’t need a time and a date,” John snapped. “But he shouldn’t be in your house – that’s where I need to be. He knows I won’t go back whilst he’s there, and he thinks he can worm his way back into affections.”

Sherlock frowned, eyes on the road. “John… what’s brought this on? Only the other day you were happy enough for him to find somewhere else to live.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I needed his space, and sharpish.”

Sherlock was quiet, for a moment. “…what happened with you and Sholto, last night?”

“It was just an argument.”

“You’ve hurt your left hand.”

Not for the first, nor the last time, John cursed Sherlock’s powers of observation. “…yes.”

“Did you hit him?”

John looked out of the window, rather than answer.

“John, if he’s hurt you –”

“Just stop it, Sherlock,” John said, pressing his hands into his eyes. “Just… give it a rest. I don’t need you to protect me. I managed years in fucking war zones on my own. I don’t need you.”

Sherlock sat up straight, and faced the road with grim purpose. “I see.”

“I didn’t mean it like…” John sighed, and dropped his hands. “I don’t want you to storm up to him like king of the alphas and knock his head off. I don’t want that.”

“But he’d deserve it?”

“I don’t know. I probably deserved what… happened.”

Sherlock indicated left, and pulled off the carriageway into a residential street, parking up, to John’s surprise.

“Sherlock, where –”

Sherlock took his hands. “John,” he said firmly, “I don’t know what happened between you and Sholto, last night, but the fact you’ve struck him says enough. And let me say this to you: _You did not deserve it_.”

John stared. “That’s… debatable, I –”

“No, it’s not debatable at all,” Sherlock insisted, squeezing John’s hands. “Whatever happened, and it was enough to get you to use violence, was not your fault.”

John could feel a tide of emotions coming up, crawling over his scalp, paralysing the back of his throat. He couldn’t reply.

“Did he hurt you?”

John shook his head.

“Did you hurt him?”

John had to smile, at this. “A bit,” he managed.

“Good,” Sherlock let go of him. “I will get you into 221B by the end of next week. I promise.”

John nodded, and Sherlock started the car back up, re-joining the carriageway as they left central London.

 

*

 

Two hours later, John was lying flat on a king-size bed, the white covers spilling around him like a delicious cloud. The bathroom had towels much the same, and John had washed up feeling incredibly out of place, and more than a bit pampered as he touched the marble surfaces, and admired the gilt mirrors. The room was large, and airy, and smelled of vanilla, and increasingly of him and Sherlock, as their body temperatures rose.

“God…” Sherlock kissed John’s mostly-flat stomach again, scenting over the skin as if he could get closer to their foetus. “John…”

“Mm,” John exhaled lazily, letting Sherlock continue his exploration of his body. It was as though John was an old, favourite book, and Sherlock was remembering him, and learning him at the same time. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, enjoying the attention.

Sherlock’s fingers brushed over the waist of John’s jeans, and John smiled, wanting to laugh to himself as Sherlock waited for permission, the way he used to, when John was a teenager, and discovering his own body, and that there could be pleasure brought from it, not just worry and fear and pain.

Those had been the softest of days, where they had woken up together, lazily kissing and embracing before making love, John guiding Sherlock into his body as the alpha gripped the bedclothes, trying not to thrust and ruin it, when John was still so fragile, so in need of controlling the situation.

“Yeah,” John breathed now, and he felt Sherlock’s shaky breath wash over his stomach as his deft fingers undid John’s button, the zip, the vibration humming over John’s half-hard cock, before pushing his jeans down and giving a tiny keen of want at the increasing hardness in John’s briefs, and the wet patch below that.

“I missed you,” Sherlock whispered, kissing up John’s leg, from his knee to his thigh, his cheek brushing the hair the wrong way, sending shivers and tingles over John’s body even before he moved to scent and mouth at John’s growing erection.

“Fuck –” John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s hair again as he tried to get a grip on himself and his alpha, who was nosing at John’s cock with sordid interest. “Sherlock, please…”

“Such a good omega, to ask so nicely,” Sherlock’s gaze flicked to John, gauging a response, and delighting in the blush and bitten lip he saw. “I’ll give you what you want, my love. Tell me what you want, and it shall be yours.”

“Oh god,” John rolled his head back. “Sherlock…”

“Mm?”

“Just… fucking… Use your mouth for something other than talking,” John said in a rush, his own words making his cock harden further. “Please.”

Sherlock smiled, and pushed John’s underwear down and away quickly, before returning to the exposed erection, and paying it the utmost attention. He stroked his fingers over the soft skin, observing the movement over the solid flesh beneath, rubbed circles in the looser skin at the base, pressing firmly where John’s non-functioning balls met the base of his cock, before tightening his grip on the shaft, and pushing the rosy glans, slick with pre-come, between his lips.

“JesusChrist,” John jutted his hips up, but Sherlock was ready for that, planting his free hand on John’s hip, holding him down, and in place, as he slowly let John penetrate his mouth. Alphas rarely gave oral sex to omegas, and the memory of Sherlock doing as much had kept John company on several lonely nights in the barracks. And it looked as though he’d forgotten nothing in their time apart.

Sherlock pulled off, then on again, letting his mouth resist just a little as he pushed John’s cock between his lips, as if John was forcing entry, the fantasy making both of them moan, Sherlock’s mouth dropping open even as John’s cock rested, throbbing, on his tongue. Before he swallowed John back down again, as deep as he could without gagging, tongue rolling over John’s hot flesh, the taste of pre-come dripping down his throat until John had to make a noise of protest, and Sherlock pull off.

“Want you…” John breathed, barely able to speak, his toes curling with pleasure, sweat breaking out on his chest, the backs of his knees. “D’you need a –”

“I’m clean,” Sherlock stood, going for his belt. “I never… without a condom, with…”

John frowned. “Why?”

“… that’s his story to tell, not mine,” Sherlock said, and John felt another puzzle piece fall into place, though he hadn’t been looking for it.

He kicked off his pants and socks, and shuffled up the bed, instead, slick leaking from him already, leaving a patch on the bedding, but he didn’t care. They could always get it changed.

Sherlock dropped his own trousers, and John couldn’t help licking his lips at the tented underwear beneath. Sherlock saw him looking, and gripped at himself through his underwear, letting John see just what size of cock he was to be dealing with.

And it made desire and need wash through John so acutely that he parted his legs, and looked his mate dead in the eye. “Give it to me, please.”

There was only a moment’s delay, as Sherlock slicked lubricant onto his cock, and then he was over John, his alpha cock rubbing against John’s little omega one, smearing pre-come over them both, making their arms tremble, their bodies arch in need to touch, to thrust…

“In me,” John gasped, his hands making little beckoning motions, as though he needed something closer, much closer, as close as anything could get. Inside.

Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath, for self-control, as he gripped the base of his cock and aimed to rub the exposed glans against John’s wet and opening hole.

“Fuck!” John gasped, the touch like fire and ice, without even the penetration. “Sherlock – just – god – please –”

Sherlock ignored him, rubbing the head of his cock over, around, over John’s entrance, omega slick easing his touches, tracing John’s pleasure, before his mate’s body was open, and hot, and wet, so wet, that when Sherlock pushed inside, he sank half way in with no effort at all.

John gasped, seeing white as his insides were – at last – wonderfully filled, stretched. It was so welcome, he could barely think. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips, and pulled with his ankles, bringing Sherlock closer, drawing the alpha inside, as Sherlock gave shivered little moans, stopping just before his already-inflating knot. There was no way John could take that outside of a heat.

They rested for a moment, drinking in one another’s eyes, whispered promises moving in the space between their mouths, kisses half-earnt disappearing into the room.

Then Sherlock rolled his hips, out and in, and John knew almost nothing else, as dark pleasure bloomed inside him, blanking out his mind, chasing a peak he came to long before his mate did, but finding a second even as the alpha’s pace became a snap of the hips that drove into the omega with months and years of unslaked lust.

It was not the angry fuck of claiming.

It wasn’t even the desperate mating of a heat.

They made love.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... is entirely porn. If you're not here for the porn, you could probably skip this chapter. It's just porn. Did I mention porn? Because here it is.

“I’ve been speaking to Mycroft,” Sherlock held up his phone as John came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.

“How romantic,” John rolled his eyes.

“I thought, perhaps… if you agree… you could move in with Mycroft, until 221B is… ready.”

John pursed his lips. “Sherlock, I’m not going to lie, here – it sounds like you’re buying yourself time.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said. “I understand why you think that, but I’m not. Victor will be given a deadline, and I will make sure he sticks to it, but if you would rather be out of Sholto’s house immediately, and not go back to him, tomorrow… the offer is there.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Mycroft is ok with that?”

“He seemed embarrassed he hadn’t suggested it, to be honest,” Sherlock put the phone on the bedside table. “Though, the last time the two of you lived together –”

“I nearly murdered him with a cricket bat, yeah…” John sighed. “I’ll sleep on it. Thank you. For asking him.”

Sherlock smiled, and reclined back on the bed as John wandered over to the mini-bar, and looked inside, sighing at the wine selection. “Why don’t you look at the room service menu?”

“I might,” John closed the fridge door. “Eating late, though. Might keep me up all night,” he grinned, and Sherlock grinned back, neither of them having to say the obvious come-back to that out loud.

“But, speaking of being up all night,” Sherlock shrugged, and shuffled forward to sit on the end of the bed. “I was wondering… if you wanted to try something?”

“Bearing in mind I’m sixteen weeks pregnant,” John said, letting Sherlock put his large hands on his hips, “what were you thinking?”

“Nothing that’ll hurt either of you,” Sherlock said, and John frowned at the slightest of stresses on the word _you_.

“Sherlock…”

“I was wondering if you wanted to…” Sherlock glanced at John’s crotch, “…have me?”

“…have you.”

“Top me.”

“Fuck you?”

Sherlock shrugged again, as if the request was normal.

John thought he might faint.

Of all the dirty, kinky, lewd requests… this was so far out there John had never even seen pornography of it, though it existed because he’d seen the titles – _Slut Alpha Subs_ , _Omega Dominatrix Hour_ , and so on.

“John? You’ve gone a bit…”

“Yeah,” John touched his own forehead. “Yeah, I expect I have, gone a bit…”

“You think it’s a bad idea. You’re disgusted.”

“No!” John said quickly. “No, I… I just never expected, in a million years… that.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a sort-of-smile. “You can say ‘no’.”

“I know I can.”

“… are you going to?”

John licked his lips, quickly. “I… Sherlock, are _you_ sure about this? You’re not designed for it, it’ll probably hurt a lot.”

“I’m familiar with the procedure,” Sherlock said.

John’s face fell. “Oh. Oh, right.” He turned away, and picked up the menu again.

“John?” Sherlock sounded confused.

“You know, I don’t need any more fuel for my imaginings of what you two got up to,” John said, facing the menu, which had gone slightly blurry. “I don’t need to be able to fucking _picture_ it –”

“John, no,” Sherlock stood, and came around to face him. “John, I didn’t mean… I’m familiar because I’ve experienced it. I haven’t. I meant I’ve done research. Read up. On what to do.”

John frowned. “So you and… you never…”

“Not like this,” Sherlock said softly. “This… what I want tonight… I could only ask my mate to do.”

A shudder ran through John, settling at his crotch. “Oh.”

“Would you, my omega?” Sherlock took the paper from John’s hands, and moved closer, hands on his hips again, teasing at the towel edge. “Would you do this for me? Do this _to_ me?” He leaned down, and whispered, in that voice deep and heavy with arousal. “Would you _fuck_ me?”

John let out a soft moan, his cock at half-mast already. “I…” he swallowed, and cleared his throat, before grasping Sherlock on the shirt front, and yanking him down into a hard kiss. It broke fast, Sherlock’s eyes shining with delight. “I will fuck you,” John breathed. “Right now, if you want.”

Sherlock blushed. “I need a few minutes to carry out a few procedures that –”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll get my room-service sundae, you get in the bathroom,” he pushed Sherlock away. “Christ, I hope you know what you’re in for.”

“Oh, I know,” Sherlock smirked, with a final, deliberate, look at John’s tented towel.

 

*

 

John scooped up his last strawberry, and glanced again at the bathroom door. The shower was running, now, which meant Sherlock had finished… whatever he was doing. Scrubbing himself raw, no doubt. Maybe other things. John was a doctor, he knew perfectly well that his and Sherlock’s internals varied enormously, though externally there would seem to be little difference. There was also the factor of muscle tone – John’s skin had a great elasticity, which accounted for why omegas looked ‘younger for longer’, and also why they tended to snap back into shape after pregnancy. It also meant they could take a knot the size of two clasped hands during a heat.

John pushed the ice cream glass away, and went to the separate sink, tidying himself up a little, straightening the pyjama bottoms he’d pulled on, and trying not to think about how, in minutes, he’d be inside Sherlock.

Inside… the thought made his knees weak.

The shower clunked off, and John heard the glass door roll back, and Sherlock pull one of the fluffy towels from the radiator. He wondered if Sherlock would even bother drying himself. Not that that would help. Water was not a lubricant.

And sure enough, Sherlock exited the bathroom, mostly still wet, his hair ruffled by a towel and finger-combed into place, swept back nicely, as it never sat whilst dry.

John smiled, and came over. “Have a nice one?”

“Yes…” Sherlock smiled back, and John knew he was nervous, despite the earlier bravado.

“Sherlock, if you’ve changed your-”

“Do not even attempt to talk me out of this,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure. I haven’t changed my mind, and I want this. I want you. I want you, John Watson, inside me.”

John stared, unable to quite process the words coming from his alpha’s mouth. “A-alright.” He squared his shoulders, the one with the gunshot wound drawing Sherlock’s eye for a moment. That was good. It showed John was brave – hard – not to be messed with. He needed that, now. “You can get on the bed, if you’re ready.”

Sherlock nodded, dropping his towel and climbing, stark-naked, onto the bed, and half-leaning, half-lying on the pile on pillows at the top, his body – skinnier and lither than John remembered it – stretched out like a brush-stroke.

John surveyed him, taking his time to look over the alpha’s head, face, neck, shoulders, arms, wrists, hands, fingers, chest… down and over every surface and body-part, making Sherlock very aware that he had nowhere to hide.

Sherlock pinched the sheet beneath him in his thumb and forefinger as John looked over his cock. The large, obviously-alpha appendage was already half-swollen, the soft foreskin creeping back from an increasingly dark pink head, invitingly.

With an obvious lick of his lips, John climbed up the bed, and pushed Sherlock’s legs apart at the knee, to settle on his hands and knees between them. The reversal of positions threw him for a moment, then he saw the want in Sherlock’s eyes, and felt a rush of his own arousal, like crackling pin-pricks over his skin, settling where the curve of his arse met the backs of his thighs. He lowered his head down, and delicately licked a stripe from Sherlock’s balls to the tip of his hardening cock, tasting nothing but shower-clean flesh. That wasn’t enough.

Sherlock’s breath was already catching, in anticipation, but it turned ragged as John gripped the base of his cock and pushed his lips over that rosy head.

“John-!”

John swirled his tongue over the smooth glans, tasting Sherlock proper, pushing his foreskin down with his tongue, each motion lapping at the sensitive flesh. Sherlock’s thighs twitched, fighting to stay still as John gripped and pulled slightly at the erect cock in his hand, humming with pleasure as a drop of pre-come rolled from Sherlock’s slit, right onto his tongue.

And as Sherlock gasped at that, John dropped a hand to his perineum, and began to gently stroke.

Sherlock flinched, then clamped his lips together to contain a shuddering moan of excitement. He reached awkwardly, grabbing the bottle of lubricant, and passing it to John, who planted a kiss on the tip of his cock by way of a thank you.

“Anytime it hurts, you have to say,” John slicked up his fingers. “Even if… we’re well underway… if you suddenly think _I’m not into this_ , we can stop.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, letting John push a pillow under his bottom, and spread his legs further apart, but not so there’d be strain. “John…”

John looked at his mate, his hand just close to Sherlock’s most intimate and private of areas.

“Thank you… for agreeing.”

John smiled. “I’m going to make you feel so good, my alpha. I’m going to make you come, and then I’m going to come inside you,” he touched a finger to the tight, tight muscle. Sherlock twitched, biting his lip. “I’m going to bury my cock in you,” John went on, starting to rub gently at the locked entrance. “Make you _ache_ with how good it feels. Make you pull me so deep inside…” he pushed his middle finger in, and let out a cry of his own.

_I’m inside Sherlock._

Just a finger-tip, but it was penetration. And John’s cock hardened so rapidly he thought he might pass out, even as Sherlock visibly made an effort to relax, and allow John to push the single digit inside him, into that smooth warmth, the soft-ridged waves of his body gripping and releasing on the strange intrusion.

“Oh fuck…” Sherlock breathed. “John… more.”

“Shh,” John stroked his thigh. “I’m not going to rush this.” And he began to slowly work his finger out, and in, in the softest of finger-fucks.

John didn’t look at his phone, and he couldn’t see a clock, so he had no idea how much time had passed by the time he was pushing three of his fingers, coned together, inside Sherlock’s soaking hole.

Sherlock was a sweating, shaking mess. His cock was dribbling pre-come over his belly, and since John had found his prostate, he’d hardly been able to speak in full sentences. He was an alpha undone. And it was driving John mad. Twice he’d had to stop, and grip hard at his own cock, trying to fight off the rising feelings, the urge to come. John’s own entrance was sopping wet and open, his body’s arousal unaware that it was to forego penetration, this time. Slick trickled between his legs, and John even transferred some of it to Sherlock’s hole, making the alpha moan in delight and lust.

“Sherlock…” John breathed, thrusting his fingers in hard. “Sherlock, can I…”

“I swear to god, John, if you don’t get inside me this second I will drop dead,” Sherlock panted, wiping his hair back. “Oh _fuck_ , please…”

John withdrew his fingers, and had to quickly manhandle Sherlock into a better position, his legs over John’s hips, resting on the cushion on the small of his back, his now-slightly open, twitching hole begging for attention.

“I love you,” John said, looking into Sherlock’s eyes as he lined up his cock.

“Love you too-!” Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open as John pushed inside him. John’s cock was obviously not up to alpha-standard, but it was enough, if you weren’t used to it, he imagined. Despite the preparation, Sherlock’s insides were hot, and tight, and gripped John like nothing else he’d ever experienced. His arms shook as he thrust out and in a few times on reflex, unable to stop, before settling, to the hilt, deep in his mate’s arse.

“… you ok?” he managed to force out.

Sherlock could only nod. His legs gripped John tight, his hands on John’s arms, trying to ground himself, to get over the fact his omega’s cock was inside him.

“I’m inside you,” John said aloud. “Oh. Oh, fucking hell. Sherlock… Fuck…”

Sherlock nodded, and moved his hips a little. _Move, please_ , that said.

And John complied. He wasn’t used to the motion, not at first, so his thrusts were jerky, no real rhythm to them, until he found how to lean his weight on his limbs, and rock his pelvis just so, keeping his abdomen tight as he thrust, as gently as he could, in and out of Sherlock – the fierce grip of his entrance making John see stars every time he pushed back inside that tight depth.

“God… god… John…” Sherlock was trembling, his erection throbbing on his stomach, unable to find release, because John just wasn’t experienced enough to angle his cock right to get his prostate.

No matter.

John reached between them both, feeling heat pooling in his own groin, knowing his own climax was moments away. He took Sherlock in hand, and worked his cock firmly, hard, bumping that swollen knot with his clenched hand as Sherlock spilled over, his body going limp as come splattered out of him, kept on coming, covering his body, John’s hand –

And John came with a groan, snapping his hips forward to bury his cock inside his mate, releasing inside him, trying to catch his breath even as Sherlock’s hands touched at his arms, his chest, his little swollen belly…

There was nothing to say, that their bodies hadn’t already said.

Sherlock winced as John withdrew, and John knew he’d been in pain. He pulled Sherlock close, uncaring for the mess over them both, and held him by the head against his chest, kissing his hair, soothing his alpha, who had surrendered so much to him.

“I love you,” John said again, scenting hard at Sherlock’s head and neck. “I love you so much, Sherlock.”

“I love you, too,” Sherlock said, sounding exhausted. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. And… I wouldn’t mind working that into our repertoire,” Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“Oh god,” John smiled. “Seriously? Didn’t it… hurt?”

“Only at first,” Sherlock said. “Then it felt… spectacular.”

“Well, thank you,” John kissed him again. “You want to hit the shower first?”

“There’s room enough for two.”

“Oh,” John smiled. “If you insist.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for:
> 
> Violence / domestic assault, and verbal abuse

“I’d like to stay at Mycroft’s,” John said, as they finished packing. “At least, in the short-term. I think that’s best for everyone. I’m out, you know where I am… it just seems like a good idea, you’re right.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll let him know to hide the cricket bats.”

“Har har. Is he seriously still bothered about that?”

“Not the bat as much as his behaviour causing it,” Sherlock said. “He’s not attracted to omegas, on the day to day, but that was… an unforeseen event.”

John felt himself blush. “I’ll try not to mention it to him.”

“He’ll appreciate that.”

“He still thinks I hurt you,” John mused, zipping up his bag. “I mean… he’s not wrong, but he… He did think I got knocked up on purpose. And I guess I could have stopped it – taken a pill, I mean – but I didn’t…” John sighed, and looked up at Sherlock. “If you’d been able to look me in the eye and say you wanted Victor, not me, I’d still have wanted you to be the baby’s dad. I mean… by there, in person. It’d kill me if you didn’t love me, anymore, but I always wanted you to have the chance to get to love them.”

Sherlock pulled the saddest face. “John… I never stopped loving you. I merely forced myself not to think of you, because of the pain it caused me.”

“And Eurus,” John said, remembering. “Eurus spoke to you.”

“Yes…” Sherlock frowned. “Quite honestly, John, I’m not sure how much of an impact she had. A lot, would be a fair guess. I started going to see her out of my own guilt – I’d abandoned her to a prison-like hospital, and before that I’d failed to protect her from our father. A lot of the guilt I felt over you, I also felt for her. It eased my conscience to see her.”

“That’s understandable,” John said. “I’m not looking an apology, Sherlock, or even an explanation, it’s just… if I end up living with you, again… It has to be make or break. I can’t do anything stupid again, and neither can you.”

“I know. Like I said before, the line is drawn,” Sherlock lifted both of their bags, and John’s inner omega trilled at the display of strength. “We don’t have to look back, now. Only forward. What’s done is done.”

 

*

 

They rode home more or less in silence, John’s hand on top of Sherlock’s as it rested on the gear stick, their arms moving in sync as he changed gear. After the weekend of almost non-stop touching, it was going to hurt to part, even for a little while. Their bond was like a freshly-charged battery, crackling with life and electricity, and made John feel warm inside. It was like swimming in love.

“Can I go straight to Mycroft’s?” John asked.

“Yes, he said that’s fine. Do you want to pick up some more clothes?”

“I’d better. I’ve got all sorts at James’. Clothes and work stuff, and baby things… We’ll have to do two trips.”

“So be it.”

John squeezed his mate’s hand, and tried to be content with the happiness he felt.

They drove back into London, the winter sun low and red in the sky, staining the clouds. Sherlock took the main road towards Kensington, risking the congestion charge, which he paid with some annoyance, and eventually drew up outside James’ house.

“Do you need me to come in?” he asked John.

“I should be ok,” John unbuckled his seatbelt.

“But… when I picked you up…”

“I know,” John caught his hand. “I know, it’s ok. Nothing’s going to happen. I’m going to get some clothes and my work pass, and come straight back. If you go in, there’ll be a fight.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Sherlock mused. “I’d quite like to break him in various places.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” John pecked a kiss on his cheek. “Back in a sec.”

He let himself out of the car, and was up the steps and into the house with his key as fast as he could go.

“John?” James shouted as John all-but sprinted past the lounge. “John, wait – hold up –”

“I don’t really want to speak to you,” John said, halfway up the stairs. He could smell alpha, now – the wrong alpha. The scent was thick, like a bin on a hot summer’s day, and it was souping at the back of John’s throat, repelling him. He’d spent the weekend wrapped in Sherlock’s arms – his mate’s arms. And this… felt so wrong he almost heaved. “I’m getting a few things and leaving. I’m moving out. I’ll be back for my other things tomorrow.”

James stared. “You’re moving back with Sherlock.”

John considered telling the truth, then immediately worried James would stalk him. “Yes. Tonight.” He went the rest of the way up the stairs, and into his room, grabbing his rucksack and putting a few clean work shirts into it, some smart trousers, jeans, pants… and finally the photos of the baby, and his pregnancy notes. He zipped them all up, and slung the bag onto his back, marching for the stairs, again.

James was waiting for him, at the bottom. “John… John, you don’t have to do this. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry –”

“I’m not doing this because I have to,” John held a hand up, warning. “I’m doing it because I want to. He’s my mate, my alpha, and I love him. I don’t want to live here, anymore. I don’t feel safe, and I don’t want my baby here, either.”

James flinched, as though John had punched him. “I’ve ruined this, haven’t I?”

“There was never anything for you to ruin,” John sighed. “We… we were never anything more than friends! This… was never going to go anywhere, James. I’m bonded, before anything else.”

“Bonds can break.”

“After _years_. And we’re having a baby. Did you honestly think…” John stopped, and calmed himself down. “I’m sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression.”

It was a remark meant to put a stopper in the flood of James’ feelings. An apology to even the playing field.

Instead, it ignited something behind James’ eyes. Something familiar, and frightening, and John dropped a hand to his belly, as he tensed.

“You know what?” James cocked his scarred head to one side. “You did give me the wrong impression. I put you up, for free, mind you… why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a good man,” John said evenly, glancing towards the door.

“Not so good as you’ll give a fucking inch,” the alpha’s eyes flashed.

John tensed all over. Was James near rut? How long had it been since he’d been with an omega? And John was right there, all that time… and now he was angry… “James,” John said, in his doctor-voice. “James, think about what you’re doing. I’m your friend. Your pregnant friend. Calm yourself down. It’s ok.”

James’ hand shot out, and gripped John’s hair.

John stayed perfectly still. A punch now could send them both to the floor. Or it might be like thumping a brick wall, if James was amped up enough. So he froze, and averted his gaze, keeping his arm and hand rigid over his abdomen.

“You… omegas really are all the same,” James breathed, his voice ugly. “Taking what they can get from alphas and then running off to the nearest knot.” He shook john’s head by the hair. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” John said, feeling his scalp wrench.

“My dad warned me about you,” James said. “Warned me. Said no one’d want an alpha who didn’t have money, but I’d better watch my back because we did. And you’d be all over me just to keep a fancy roof over your head.”

“You know that’s not true,” John said. “James, you know –”

“First Sherlock fucking Holmes, and now me. You’re a disgrace, John. I heard from that beta-head-shrinker, when she’d had a few pints, back at the barracks – you let his dad touch you, didn’t you? Where does it end, eh? You fucking whore.”

John grit his teeth. “I’m not a whore, James. I’m a bonded omega, and you need to stop touching me, right now.”

“Or what?”

“Or,” a voice made of black ice came from the doorway, “his alpha might overhear what you’re saying.”

James looked around, as John shot pleading eyes at Sherlock – pleading for him to do what, he wasn’t sure.

“Sick to learn the truth, Holmes?” James spat.

“Sick to look at the likes of you,” Sherlock said evenly. “Let go of John. He has made it quite clear that he doesn’t wish me to hurt you.”

“And you’re alright with that, are you? Your omega trying to protect another alpha?” James laughed, sickeningly. “Can’t you see what he’s doing?” He let go of John’s hair, and John stepped back, out of reach, limbs tense in case he had to defend himself.

“John is coming home with me, where he belongs,” Sherlock said. “You’ve caused enough damage. I admit that hormones may have played a significant part in this… obsession of yours, but this has to stop. You are not your feelings, James Sholto. Don’t let what you can’t have tell you what to do.”

John glanced at Sherlock. Was that psycho-talk parroted from his own therapy?

James shook his head. “He might be less than the perfect omega, but you still don’t deserve him. You fucking never answered his letters or phone calls, you weren’t even there for him when you left him knocked up after a heat. And now you think everything will just be perfect?”

John was edging towards Sherlock, now, towards the door, trying not to listen to James’ words, to just get outside…

“And you reckon he loves you? That he spent years pining for you?”

“I think the letters I have are evidence enough,” Sherlock balled a fist.

“Yeah?” James grinned. “Then why don’t you ask John what happened the night after his passing-out parade?”

John froze, every cell in his body screaming in cold horror.

Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

“That’s right,” James said, bitterly. “I don’t even care, anymore. You can just know. I’m done protecting both of you. Sherlock, John and I fucked, the night of his graduation. And here he’s been, living with me.”

Sherlock stepped back. He actually stepped back, as if he could avoid the words coming at him.

The fight went out of John’s limbs, and he sagged where he stood.

It was over.

“We had sex, and then he came to live with me. That was me, filling in for you,” James pointed at Sherlock. “Me, the ugly, deformed soldier with nothing to offer except the fact I fucking adored him. Past tense. John used me, and you can bet to fuck he’s going to use you, and you fucking deserve it after what your family’s done to him. Well, you’re welcome to each other.” He folded his arms. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

John didn’t need telling twice. He darted out of the open door, down the steps to the car, and leaned against it, catching his breath, shaking.

Tears were threatening, but he didn’t let them drop. Not yet.

There was a slam – a door.

Then Sherlock was in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“…is it true?”

John couldn’t bring himself to look up. He was so ashamed. Infidelity amongst alphas was rare enough, but for omegas it was unheard of. Some people even thought it physically impossible. “We had sex,” he admitted, tonelessly.

Sherlock let out an anguished moan. “You – you… weren’t…”

“I didn’t say no.” That was the truth. John couldn’t say he’d consented, because he’d barely made a move of his own that entire episode.

“That… that doesn’t sound like…”

“I don’t know what it was,” John glanced up, tears spilling over, now. “He started it, yes, but I didn’t say no. And that’s it.”

Sherlock stared for a moment. Then took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and mopped John’s tears. “I can’t say anything,” he said, sounding strangled. “I… with Victor… this is the same…”

“I wasn’t leading him on,” John said, letting himself be wiped. “I promise, Sherlock, I… I never…”

Sherlock put the hanky in John’s hand. He looked exhausted, defeated, and more miserable than John had seen him. “What bothers me, more than the news that you… is that you said _I didn’t say no_.”

John blinked.

“That’s what really bothers me,” Sherlock said again. He opened the passenger side door. “Are you coming?”

John nodded, and got into the car.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains discussion of past abuse, and depiction of John's PTSD
> 
> Edit: I can't really believe I have to say this, but please try and refrain from throwing insults and abuse at me personally in your comments. I can take criticism of my work, I do that for a living, but getting personal is just not on. I don't want to spend my time deleting comments that are designed to hurt me. This shouldn't be a lot to ask.

It was one of the worst journeys of John’s life.

There had been some bad ones, to be sure – the day Mycroft took his away from the manor, the one where his parents were killed, the one in a helicopter, lifted dying from the desert.

But this one ranked right up there.

Sherlock drove without speaking, his eyes cold and on the road, hands at the ten and two o’clock position, moving only to change gear. He didn’t look angry, or disappointed, or even that strange blankness he got when he was in shock. He was almost so unreadable he might as well not have had a face.

John sat miserably, looking at his own clasped hands. He should have known this was all going to come out, to blow up. He had ruined it. Broken Sherlock's heart just as they were beginning to fix things. This was it. John had nothing to offer except his shame.

_What bothers me, is that you didn’t say ‘no’._

How was John supposed to take that? Was he supposed to have said ‘no’? Was he supposed to have been physically forced? He wasn’t sure if he’d been forced as it was, without adding that possibility into the mix. What did Sherlock mean?

They pulled up outside Mycroft’s house – not the one John remembered.

“Is this it?” he asked, voice dry.

“Yes, he’s moved,” Sherlock replied, letting himself out of the car. He was round to John’s side before John had his seatbelt undone, and took John’s arm to help him out of the car.

John touched Sherlock with his free hand. “Sherlock… I…”

“I can’t discuss it at the moment,” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s… I just need to get you safe, with Mycroft, and know you’re… here.”

John nodded. Sherlock didn’t have to discuss it now, or ever. But John hoped he would.

Sherlock gave John’s arms a small squeeze, then went to get his bags out of the car boot. John rang the doorbell, feeling rather sick.

He heard footsteps approaching, and steeled himself for Mycroft’s icy stare. The last thing he needed right now was his brother in law’s judgement. The door swung open.

“John!”

John looked up at a familiar, beaming, smile. “Sh-Sherry…” he stepped forward into open arms, and let himself he held. “Oh, thank god.”

“I know, rather me answering the door than the Ice Man,” Sherry laughed, kissing John on the temple, and cuddling him close for a moment. “Thought you’d like the company as you got settled in.”

“I’d love the company,” John said as Sherry let him go, and Sherlock brought in the bags.

“Sherrinford, what’re you –”

“I’m here to dilute the alphas,” Sherry said, cocking an eyebrow. “God know John needs the break – you lot don’t give him a moment. He needs another omega, especially in his condition.”

Sherlock looked as though he might argue, then set the bags down, and closed the door. “You’re right. Is Mycroft even in?”

“He is,” Mycroft came through and greeting Sherlock with a brush of cheeks, and John with a distant nod. “John, welcome. Your bedroom is on the first floor –”

“I’ll show him,” Sherry said, picking up the smallest of John’s bags. “Come on, John.” He linked elbows with him, and John let himself be dragged up the stairs, away from Sherlock and Mycroft, who were exchanging glances.

The house was larger than the one John remembered, though laid out in more or less the same way, with John’s bedroom at the top of the stairs on the first floor. Sherry nudged the door open, and John went in, sighing at the permeating scent of alpha in the little-used space. It was the scent of kin, so not disgusting, but still _not my alpha_ , and it made John wrinkle his nose.

“Stinks, doesn’t it?” Sherry opened the window on the catch. “Did you bring a nesting blanket?”

“I only brought clothes,” John sighed. “I’ll have to get Sherlock to lie on the bed before he goes.”

“Goes?” Sherry frowned. “What do you mean?”

John bit his lip before answering. “He’s… not staying here, Sherrinford. This is just somewhere for me to crash.”

“Crash? But you’re…” he gestured at John’s stomach. “You can’t be homeless with my niece or nephew in there.”

“I’m not homeless, I just can’t go back to 221B yet. Victor Trevor is still in residence.”

Sherry’s lips went very thin. “My brother really is a waste of skin, sometimes.”

John smiled weakly.

Sherry sat on the bed. “Come on, then. Tell me. Something’s clearly eating you alive. What’s made you leave that alpha’s house, then?”

John took a deep breath, and started to tell the story.

Sherry listened carefully, occasionally raising his eyebrows or shaking his head, until John got to the end of the much abbreviated story.

“…and then Sherlock said _What bothers me is that you didn’t say ‘no’_ ,” he sighed.

Sherry nodded, thinking. “Well, that’s something.”

“Something?”

“Yes… he’s sorry you didn’t consent, isn’t he?”

John blinked. “I don’t know. Maybe. I… I thought he might mean that I didn’t refuse. He’s angry about that. I should have fought him off, isn't that what he meant? Or not?”

“It is rather ambiguous,” Sherry mused. “And I highly recommend asking him about it. Lord knows you two need to work on your communication skills. Now,” he dusted his hands, “are you going to let me have a feel, or what?”

John laughed. “There’s not much to feel, yet, but go on.” He stood, and lifted his t-shirt, letting Sherry put his hands onto his stomach. “Didn’t think you were the broody sort.”

“It’s not broodiness,” Sherry said, inclining his head to kiss John’s skin, lightly. “It’s wanting to be near kin. If you went to see Eurus, she’d be the same. It’s an omega thing.”

“I’ve never been around a pregnant omega I’m related to,” John said. “Even related to by a bond. My parents were both betas, my sister is a beta… I don’t know a lot of things. But this feels… right. Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” Sherry took his hands away, smiling at the tiny rise of John’s flesh. He looked up at him, and John felt a little squirm of happiness, somewhere beneath the misery.

“We should go back down. They’ll think we’re talking about them.”

“Oh, let them,” Sherry led the way out. “All I’ve heard since I arrived is Sherlock this, Gregory that… they’re so obsessed with themselves. Do you know, Mycroft would rather ask me about Alfie’s business than anything I’ve been doing. Alphas, I swear.”

“Is Alfie the same?” John asked.

“No, he’s one of a kind. And I don’t just say that because he’s my mate,” Sherry added. “He’s the only alpha I’ve met who doesn’t live with his head up his arse.”

 

*

 

Sherlock stayed for around an hour, before he decided he had to leave. They'd all sat around with tea and biscuits, Mycroft arranging a team of men to go to Kensington and rescue John's belongings. Apparently the first team he sent had been barred entry - James Sholto was in rut, and would be for at least twenty-four hours. John noted dully that that probably explained the man's behaviour, even if it certainly did not excuse it. Sherlock used the break in conversation to excuse himself.

“Before you go,” John said, quickly putting his decaf tea down, “can you come up, for a moment?”

Sherlock agreed, and the two of them went to John’s room. Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he went in.

“I know,” John sniffed. “I don’t know if I can sleep with –”

“You managed perfectly fine at James Sholto’s house.”

John’s explanation shut down, and he stood still, the words like hot brands of shame.

Sherlock was on him in a second, wrapping his arms around him gently, apologising. “I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry. I…”

“You’re not wrong, though,” John forced out, putting his head to one side as Sherlock scented at his throat. Pleasure warmed through his body, despite the hurt. John had to wonder how someone could feel so many emotions at once without shattering.

“I am wrong,” Sherlock said. “I am so wrong… John…”

“What did you mean?” John turned in his arms, to face him. “What you said, at the car? What did you mean by… me not saying ‘no’?”

Sherlock blinked, as if the answer was obvious. “You… you didn’t refuse, John.”

“You wish I had.”

“No. Well, yes, but… I mean you didn’t say ‘yes’. To what happened. But you didn’t say ‘no’. You didn’t say anything.”

“I… didn’t.”

“Did you _want_ to say something?” Sherlock asked, his eyes very steady, arms holding John gently.

“I… don’t know.” John tried to think.

“Not saying ‘no’ can be the same as not saying ‘yes’,” Sherlock said, voice low and deep, a comforting note through John’s chest. “When you were little… you didn’t want any of that to happen, but you didn’t say ‘no’, then, either. Do you see why it bothers me? Why it makes me want to rip him limb from limb?"

John stared, then nodded. “You think he forced me into it?”

“From where I’m standing, it looks somewhat that way.”

John swallowed. “I don’t know if he did. He came over to me…” he felt Sherlock’s fingers clench, just a touch, “…and he kissed me, and took me to…” he frowned. “I don’t know. I could have said ‘no’, couldn’t I?”

Sherlock suddenly looked very sad. “I don’t know, John. Not necessarily. If you felt you couldn’t.”

John wiped at his eyes. “The only alpha I’ve ever refused is you, and we’re mated, how fucked up is that?”

Sherlock pulled him close, and kissed him on the top of the head. “Not at all, John. I want you to feel you can say ‘no’ to me. I want you to know that I need your enthusiastic consent. I don’t want you to lie there, silent and limp whilst I take you. That’s never been what I want.”

Something horrible flared into realisation in John’s mind.

John gasped, looking up. “Sherlock – Sherlock, he knew. About me. And your dad. James, he knew. He…” the bottom fell out of his stomach, and John’s knees buckled in shock. Sherlock held him up effortlessly, his expression starting to twist. “He knew. He knew your dad did that to… Oh. Oh, fuck…”

Sherlock reacted fast, getting John to the floor in front of the plastic-lined waste-paper basket a moment before he was copiously sick.

John heaved again, his mind refusing to accept what had happened.

James knew John had been abused when he went to him. Did he know John lacked the ability to refuse? Had John been _raped_?

“Some water, please,” Sherlock was saying to Sherry, who had come running at the noise.

John barely registered his feet moving away, from the doorway. “Sherlock…”

“I’m here,” Sherlock was still holding him. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

John closed his eyes, and shook his head. “My entire life…”

“No, not your entire life,” Sherlock shushed him. “John…”

John accepted the water handed to him, and barely noticed as the sick-bin was carried away after he spat into it. His head was swimming. “He knew. He knew, and he never said, and he tried to get me to…” he shuddered. “Oh god…”

“He needs to nest,” Sherry’s voice came from somewhere above. “Sherlock, get him into bed. He’s going to go into shock, and he’s _pregnant_.”

John felt himself lifted, princess-style, off the floor, and put under the covers. Someone took off his shoes and belt, and then a warm body – his mate – slipped in behind him, holding him close.

“Put your jacket over the edge of the blanket, so he can smell you, not Mycroft.”

The scent of Sherlock flooded John’s mind, and he shut his eyes. He couldn’t cope with the realisation. His brain was forcing him to sleep, to ignore it, to process the details whilst he slept, in his mate’s arms.

A kiss grazed his throat.

“I’ve got you, John, it’s ok. I love you. I love you so much. I'm not going anywhere. I promise.”


	21. Chapter 21

John woke slowly, his eyes feeling stuck together, and his mouth tasting vile. He remembered he’d been sick, and not brushed his teeth.

Uh, gross.

“Oh…” he stretched, feeling Sherlock’s hand on his stomach tense, then relax as he, too, started waking. John wriggled out of the covers, and limped to the bathroom as Sherlock started coming to.

John brushed his teeth quickly, scraping his tongue so much he gagged before rinsing his mouth out and washing his face. He was wearing his day clothes, and he vaguely remembered Sherlock man-handling him into bed as he had some sort of panic attack. It was a good thing he had been there…

The reason behind John’s vomiting suddenly came back to him, punching him in the stomach, and making him grip the sink in horror. He closed his eyes, and did some of the breathing exercises he knew, thinking of nothing but the cold porcelain in his hands. Until the attack passed, and he felt well enough to press his forehead to the mirror.

He couldn’t change it. James had betrayed him utterly.

And Sherlock was going to look after him.

Look after them both.

John pressed his hands to the small swell between his hips, and felt a rush of tingles creep over his back, and down his spine, a sort of frightened anticipation. He suddenly wanted to cry.

Instead, he washed his hands, and went back into the dark bedroom, seeing by the radio clock that it was barely six am.

“Come here,” Sherlock lifted the covers, and let John crawl in beside him, before lowering the duvet and covering them both. “How’re you feeling?”

“Mm,” John hummed, rather than answer.

Sherlock kissed his head. “Merry Christmas Eve.”

“Is it?” John asked, rubbing his eyes. “Shit, it must be.” He looked up, just making out Sherlock’s face, in the dark. “Are you going back to Baker Street?”

“No,” Sherlock said, without hesitation. “I don’t want to leave you. Victor’s going to his parents’, today, there’s no point me going over to shout at thin air.”

John sighed, and rolled onto his side, so Sherlock could be the big spoon against him. “So… what’s the plan?”

“I think Sherrinford will ask Alfie to come over,” Sherlock mused, his deep voice rumbling at the back of John’s head. “It looks like a Holmes family Christmas, if everyone is here.”

“…except Eurus,” John said.

Sherlock’s breathing faltered, just a touch. “Yes. I usually… go and see her.”

“Don’t let me put you off,” John said, patting his mate’s hand. “It’d be a lonely Christmas for her, with no visitors.”

Sherlock nodded, and John could tell he was thinking.

“You don’t want to go?”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to see my sister,” Sherlock said quickly. “It’s… the last time I saw her, she… told me things.”

“About me?” John guessed.

“And myself. And her. And… Eurus doesn’t simply talk. She… invades one’s mind. She’s like a computer virus, when she speaks. And the things she believes are dangerous.”

“She needs help,” John said. “Does she even get any? Or is she just locked up?”

“Psychological help can only do so much when the patient quickly begins to invade the brain of her therapist,” Sherlock said, darkly. “For their own safety, treatments have long since been suspended.”

John kept his eyes closed, and tried to think what it might be like, for Eurus, to be trapped inside her own head, with the memories of Siger Holmes, and no way of getting away from herself, no distractions, no relationships.

Siger must be very loud, in her mind.

John shuddered, and Sherlock drew him close, fussing and loving him gently, a hand splaying out over John’s stomach, protective of their baby.

“Sherry thought it might to her good for me to go and see her,” John said.

Sherlock was quiet, for a moment. “I’m not sure I agree with that.”

“You don’t think I should go?”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly. “I don’t.”

John frowned. “But…”

“I know you’ve good intentions,” Sherlock said. “But Eurus is a murderer, and has deep psychological issues. I don’t think it is safe or wise for you to go near her. Particularly when you’re pregnant.”

John felt the firmness of the alpha’s decision, and decided not to fight against it. If Sherlock was saying ‘no’, he couldn’t exactly sneak off, alone. He didn’t even know where Eurus was. He snuggled against Sherlock, backwards, against his chest. “What about your mum?”

“In the Algarve, with friends.”

“Just us boys, then,” John mused. “I hope someone knows how to cook.”

 

*

 

Sherlock and Mycroft went off to order food from some exclusive supplier or other, and Sherry took John into town for clothes.

“I really don’t need anything special,” John protested, as Sherry dragged him into an expensive boutique, declaring he was going to treat John like a prince.

“You and I clearly have very different opinions about _needs_ ,” Sherry smiled, steering John around the shop by the elbow, picking up scraps of cloth that were meant to be clothes, and loading up his arms before bowling John into the changing room and commanding him to select an outfit.

John chose some fitted maternity trousers with a hidden elastic band inside, though he barely needed it yet, and a blue shirt cut to accommodate a small bump. He pushed the curtain back, and held his arms out. “Yes?”

“Oh…” Sherry’s eyes filled up, and so did the assistant’s. “John, you look so…”

“That’s a ‘no’, then,” John grabbed for the curtain.

“No, you look beautiful!”

“I’m not having you sobbing all through Christmas dinner,” John winked, pulling the curtain across. He put the outfit to one side, having decided it was worth Sherry’s emotions for smart clothes that fit, before lifting another hanger, and frowning at what it held. “What is this, Sherry?” he stuck it out of the curtain.

“Think of it as a gift for Sherlock,” Sherry called.

John pulled the hanger back through, and looked at it again, trying to work out where his legs were meant to go in it. He put it on the ‘yes’ pile, and decided to worry about it later.

“I’ll take these,” Sherry swept the lot from John’s arms as he exited. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks, Sherry,” John had to smile, then gawp in horror as the large figure on the register only went higher with each item scanned. “Jesus!”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like I can’t afford it,” Sherry passed over a gold card.

“What does Alfie do, again?” John couldn’t help asking.

Sherry gave him an amused look. “He works selling insurance, John. This isn’t his money. It’s mine. Holmes Baby trust fund. Mycroft secured it, after… our dad died.” He looked embarrassed, then. “We all got the same. Even Eurus, though hers is used to pay for her care, for now.”

John frowned. “So… why is Sherlock –”

“Living where he does, and so on? Well…” Sherry thanked the clerk, and accepted the bag of clothes. “Mycroft suspended Sherlock’s access to his trust fund. After… what happened.”

“You mean the drugs,” John clarified, following him out of the shop.

“…yes.”

John clamped his lips together, and the two omegas were quiet as they walked to the food court. Neither were hungry, but Sherry bought them both kale and pineapple juices from the juice bar, and they sat at a Formica table to drink them.

“I made that happen,” John sighed, after sipping his drink. “It was all my fault, for leaving.”

“You left because you had to,” Sherry said. “You mustn’t blame yourself for Sherlock going off the rails. He let you go because he wanted to support you. He just… didn’t think things through. And they say alphas are meant to be the clever ones.”

“They really aren’t,” John grinned, and the two omegas laughed, before linking hands, and enjoying the kinship. Just lifted his drink, and took a gulp of it, the ice and exotic fruit tingling his mouth.

Then he gripped Sherry’s hand in shock.

“Oh my god,” he put a hand to his abdomen.

Sherry looked stricken immediately. “John?!”

“It’s… no, don’t worry…” John lifted the juice again, and took another drink. Then smiled a moment later, as he felt it again.

Tiny flutters below his belly button, and slightly to the right. Tiny, tiny flutters.

“I think the baby’s moving,” John said, his voice sounding very detached. “I think it likes this drink.”

Sherry was staring at John like he’d fallen out of the sky.

John tried again, swallowing a full mouth of the stuff.

It felt like the baby did a somersault, albeit a very small one.

John bit his lip, to hold back the tears.

 

*

 

“I missed it,” Sherlock said, mournfully, his hands on John’s belly, nose pressed almost into his navel. “I’m so sorry.”

“I doubt you’d be able to feel it, anyway,” John said, trying to ignore the unimpressed look from Mycroft at the possessive scenting going on in his lounge. “I couldn’t, on my skin.”

“Still…” Sherlock kissed his mate’s stomach before pulling his top back down. “I’m glad it happened, even if I missed it. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherry smirked, looking over his coffee. “I did.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously, and John went red.

He had figured out that the barely-there bit of fabric was some sort of lingerie for omega men, but the idea of wearing it in front of Sherlock made John feel like he was going to come out in hives.

The awkwardness was broken by the doorbell, and Sherlock went to answer it, leaving John to hiss at Sherrinford to keep the purchases a secret, before Sherlock returned, followed by a tall and muscular alpha John had only met once before.

“Alfie!” Sherrinford squealed, throwing himself at the man, who lifted him up and kissed him deeply before they scented at each other’s throats for a moment.

Sherlock stroked down the back of John’s neck as they waited politely for the display to finish.

“Alfie, darling, you remember John Watson?” Sherry introduced them.

Alfie smiled at John, though didn’t offer a hand, as was respectful. “Indeed. Though, the last time I saw you, you were this high,” he indicated with a hand that looked like it could crush John’s head entirely. “You’re looking well. Blooming, in fact.”

“Thank you,” John rolled his eyes. “It’s nice to re-meet you. How’re things in insurance?”

Alfie grinned, looking like a model. “Couldn’t be better. And medicine?”

“Same.”

They all looked at one another for a moment, then burst out laughing, John stepping into Alfie’s space, and exchanging a gentle brush of cheeks. Alfie smelled of some expensive cologne, and his dark skin was soft. John had no trouble seeing what Sherry saw in his mate, even if he was pleased to notice he felt no interest in the man aside from being the future uncle of his baby.

Mycroft came in to greet his family, next, and soon they were all drinking port (except John, who had a sad orange juice that made the baby do wriggling again), and eating nibbles in front of the fire. John had to smile as he looked at them all. Mycroft, texting Gregory. Sherry sitting on Alfie’s lap, feeding him grapes and cheese. And Sherlock, curled up, cat-like, beside John, one hand on his thigh.

 _Merry Christmas_ , John thought to himself.

 

*

 

“I did sort of get you an early present,” John said, as Sherlock drew the curtains.

“Early? It’s not that early, the night before.” Sherlock turned, putting his head on one side, curious.

“Well, it’s not the actual day,” John reasoned, pulling his dressing gown closer. He’d had a bubble bath, and was feeling fluffy and soft, the last drops of panic from his attack the night before all but gone down the plug hole with the water.

“True…” Sherlock glanced down at John’s exposed legs. Weighing up. Deducing. John wasn’t wearing pyjamas. “Will I like it?”

“Just promise not to laugh, ok?” John forced a smile, and opened his dressing gown quickly, letting it drop from his arms, down, to the floor.

Sherlock actually took a step backwards, his eyes like saucers.

John could see himself in the full-length mirror. He put his shoulders back, and looked his alpha in the eye.

John’s underwear was no more than a lacy pair of knickers, that clung to his shape, leaving nothing to the imagination. They hugged the curve of his arse, his wide thighs – leftovers from the army that John would never really lose – and the bulge of his cock. The lingerie dragged up from the crack of John’s arse, the lace reaching up over his spine in a thin line, over his shoulders to a thick lace collar that had him fast around the neck.

“What do you think?” John turned slowly, parting his legs just enough for Sherlock to be able to tell the underwear (such as it was) was crotchless.

Sherlock made a sort of choking noise. “You… that… for me?”

John almost said it wasn’t his idea, but Sherlock looked so done over by it, be changed his mind. “Yep. I don’t know if the effect is spoiled a bit by this,” he touched his belly, “or these,” he stroked up his chest to his dark nipples. “What do you think?”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. “I think I hope everyone else in this house has ear-plugs,” he breathed, going over to John and seizing him hard, one hand stroking up his erection, the other gripping the collar as he claimed him with a pure alpha kiss.


	22. Chapter 22

Christmas became New Year, and John couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so utterly content. Sherlock was treating him like he was the single most precious object in the world, Sherry kept him laughing almost non-stop, and even Mycroft and Alfie were nice to be around. John ate his own weight in festive food, slept like a log every night, and had several memorable orgasms that caused Alfie to have a quiet word with Sherlock, one morning, asking him to try and be considerate of others.

But the happy mood had to end. And the person to put a stop to it was Mycroft.

“Enough is enough,” he said, sitting John and Sherlock down in the lounge. “As fun as this festive season has been, you are not squatting in my flat. John, you are welcome to stay as long as you need, but Sherlock – what is happening with Baker Street?”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared, but he answered. “Victor is back, he went back yesterday.”

“Then get rid of him,” Mycroft said, acidly, “unless you’re planning on beginning a ménage a trois, you need to get on your bike. John is eighteen weeks pregnant, and you’ve had almost half a pregnancy to get on with this.”

Sherlock went red.

John cleared his throat. “We will sort it, Mycroft, I know we’ve been under your feet, and Sherry, too…”

“Sherrinford only stays for you,” Mycroft said. “And Alfie is back at work. But, I’m sorry, you can’t treat my house as some sort of second home, Sherlock. As much as I dislike the phrase, you need to _man up_.”

John bit his lip as Sherlock snarled under his breath.

“Fine,” Sherlock stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “We’ll go today. I’ll go today,” he changed his mind.

“I don’t mind going,” John said.

“You should stay here.”

“Why?” John asked. “Are you telling me he’s a violent nut-job? He’s seemed perfectly nice every time I’ve met him.”

“John, I’m about to kick him out of the flat,” Sherlock reasoned. “And seeing my visibly pregnant mate isn’t exactly going to go down well on top of that.”

“I’m hardly showing!” John protested.

Sherlock and Mycroft looked pointedly at the little pot belly that had made itself known on John’s middle over Christmas.

“That’s just cake,” John folded his arms and huffed. “Wait, no, that’s worse – it’s all baby, it’s enormous –”

Sherlock smiled. “Just… stay here, please?”

“No,” John shook his head. “Sherlock, come on. It’s me. I’m not an idiot, and I was a soldier, I’ve been trained to diffuse difficult situations.”

“You’re not exactly impartial,” Mycroft pointed out.

“It’s my flat, and my mate,” John said. “I’m going.”

Sherlock sighed.

 

*

 

221B was just as he remembered.

Except noisier.

They’d arrived to find Victor was, thankfully, packed. His cases were in the lower hallway, and there were a few boxes on the landing. John had to admit he felt relieved, though the scent of Sherlock mixed with a strange beta man lingered so heavily in the air he could feel it bringing his morning sickness back on.

“Are you going to be ill?” Sherlock asked as John paused, halfway up the stairs. “You’ve gone so white.”

“I’m ok,” John put a hand to his belly, where the baby was fluttering around. “Just… the smell.”

“Oh…” Sherlock looked suddenly stricken with guilt. “Here.” He took off his scarf, and tied it gently around John’s neck. The thick scent of his mate made John relax, and his nausea subside. “I’ll get Mycroft to send in a cleaning team.”

John nodded, and hauled himself up the rest of the stairs.

A brief knock, and Sherlock let them into the lounge, just as “I’ll be down in a sec,” came from the room above.

John felt a hot flash of anger. That was his baby’s room. Mycroft was going to have to fumigate the place, and sterilise it. _Stop being so irrational_ , he told himself, following Sherlock into the lounge.

Some things were the same. The cushions and throws had been packed up – clearly they were Victor’s – and there were books missing from the shelves, and the floor was once again bare of rugs, save for a couple of especially threadbare ones.

John inhaled on the scarf’s wool. He suddenly felt horribly out of place.

“Sherlock, you should have called, I was going to –” Victor stopped in the doorway. “Oh. Hello, John.”

John nodded at him, and watched Victor’s eyes flick down to the stretch of his jumper, the roundness just visible beneath. The beta man’s eyes glowed with something not unlike envy.

A shudder ran through John.

Victor looked back at Sherlock. “If you’re here to kick me out, there’s no need. I’ve got a van coming tomorrow. I’m headed back to Cheltenham.”

“I see,” Sherlock shifted, clearly embarrassed. “Thank you, for arranging it.”

“Well, it was pretty clear you weren’t coming back to me,” Victor said. It would have been a snap, if he hadn’t looked, and sounded, so exhausted. His longish hair was loose, instead of back in a bun, and his stubble was more like a full beard than anything else.

John wondered if he should have come at all. But, maybe if he hadn’t, Sherlock would have gone to Victor, to comfort him. But the man didn’t deserve to be ignored… John was tearing his life in half. None of this was Victor’s fault.

His only crime had been to love Sherlock. To risk loving a mated man.

Victor sniffed, and straightened his shoulders. “Sherlock, there’s a few things you need to go through. If you want to keep any of it. I’ve put them on your bed, you can… choose.”

“Choose?”

“Mementoes,” Victor blushed. “That sort of… thing.”

Sherlock looked at John. “I’m… not sure…”

“Sherlock, go and choose what you want to keep,” John sighed, pulling the scarf down. “I’m not going to ask you to burn everything or erase years of your life. Go and choose what’s special.”

Victor raised his eyebrows, surprised.

Sherlock nodded, and went into his bedroom, leaving the door close-to.

Victor let out a big breath, and slumped onto the sofa. “I don’t know whether to be pleased you’re here or not.”

John nodded. “I wanted to come, but… I don’t know.”

“It’s ok. Probably for the best you did. I…” Victor pushed his hair back, “I thought we might be able to make it work. The three of us, as a team, like. But… You’ve got him. He loves you so fucking much.”

John gave a sad smile.

“He’s talk about you, just sometimes, and when he did it was like he was being pulled apart from the inside. I used to think it must be awful, loving someone so much it hurts you. But it’s just another drug. He’s addicted to you.

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know. I do know Sherlock might pretend to be able emotion and feelings, but that’s a total lie. He goes to see Eurus more often than the other two, and he takes cases that don’t pay when the person really needs his help. And he never judged me when I told him about –” Victor looked up, sharply. “You… do know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” John asked, his insides suddenly tense, and ice-cold.

“I… I’m ill,” Victor said. “You’re a doctor, put two and two together. Years of drug abuse, and then suddenly deciding I _had to_ get clean? What would push me into that?”

John stared; horror, sadness and dread running through his own veins. “You… you’re on treatment?”

“Of course,” Victor nodded. “But it was caught too late to ever get down to a seriously low count. I’ve got about… fifteen years, I reckon. Unless they come up with a cure in the meantime.”

John couldn’t speak. His throat had closed up, and the baby inside him was kicking and stretching for his attention.

_And you’ve been in a sexual relationship with Sherlock. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh FUCK, so have I. Jesus Christ._

“Sherlock –” John managed to croak out.

Victor waved a hand. “Don’t worry. He was always Mr Safety-First. And I mean for _everything_. He’s… clean. You don’t need to worry.”

John relaxed just slightly, making a mental note to get them both tested as soon as possible.

“My point is, he knew my diagnosis, and he never once pitied me for it,” Victor said. “He treated me with respect, and he made sure I got to my appointments, and he even helped me prove I was safe working in the pharmacy. But he never talked about me being ill beyond that. That was all I wanted. I just wanted to be treated like a human being. Sherlock did that for me. I’m glad I got to experience that, in my life.”

John wondered when he’d started crying. He couldn’t remember. But his face was wet.

Sherlock came out of his room, and John wiped his eyes quickly. “I’ve put the rest in a bag, with the boxes.”

“Thanks,” Victor stood. “You ok with me stopping here tonight? You can send in a cleaning team anytime after eleven. That’s when I’ll be gone.”

Sherlock nodded. “That seems agreeable.”

John wished he could check his face, but stood anyway, going over to Sherlock almost subconsciously, and taking his arm. “We can go.” He didn’t mean that, at all.

If Sherlock realised, he didn’t say so. “Yes. Please post your key through the door,” he said to Victor. “And…”

Victor held a hand out. “Thank you. For all of it.”

Sherlock blinked at the hand, before taking it, and shaking firmly, once.

John tried not to see how Victor’s fingers lingered, soaking up every molecule of contact with Sherlock that he could. He couldn’t blame him. He’d do the same.

Except John had left in the small hours, sneaking out like a rat.

He couldn’t look Victor in the eye to say goodbye.

They were in the car before he could speak again.

“He told me his diagnosis,” he forced out.

Sherlock looked at him. “We always used –”

“Yes, thank you, you don’t need to spell it out.”

“… you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” John said. “I’m… I suppose I am. I’m angry at myself. For splitting you two up.”

Sherlock stared. “But… isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Of course this is what I wanted,” John brought his hand up and kissed it. “But it doesn’t mean it’s morally right. I _shouldn’t_ want. I… I’ve taken love away from a terminally ill man, and I do not deserve you. Not one fucking bit.”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around him, and pulled him close. “It doesn’t come down to deserving,” he said. “There’s no right or wrong way to want someone. And we are bonded. I love you, and if I didn’t want this, I wouldn’t be here. Bond or not, there’s some things as can’t be forced.”

“This should be happy, but it isn’t.”

“New beginnings aren’t always happy,” Sherlock put a hand to John’s stomach, and the baby rolled over, though unfelt by its father. “Sometimes they’re painful. Or sad, or awkward. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes new beginnings come about because you lose something. Sometimes you gain. Someone is born, or someone dies. Change is never easy, and not always welcome.”

John nodded, letting Sherlock stroke his hair. “What do we do now?”

“We pack,” Sherlock said. “We go home, to our real home, we move back in. We eat toast, and make tea, and have sex, and paint our baby’s room, and go to work and just… live. As happily as we can.”

“Ever after,” John said. But it came out bitter.

“As long as we live,” Sherlock said.

 

 

\- - - END OF PART TWO - - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the boys are finally back at Baker Street! But what happens now? And what has become of Eurus, and James?
> 
> Part Three, coming soon.


End file.
